That time in Boulder when I was just getting used to living on what I supposed was the surface of the Moon. I was like Mr. Clean from Apocalypse Now, “born in some south Bronx shithole [aka south London] and the light and space of Vietnam [Colorado] really put the zap on his head.”
So I walked into the nicest record store at that time and my friend Nathan was spinning this. And everything was totally okay.
Nostalgia for Boulder filtered through Stockholm Syndrome? The echolalia of time lapping against our brains? Sentiment for square bass strings? What if the putative Alien Megastructure is worse in terms of the social than a NYC subway car? Get thee to a woded cabin.
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