Written by B, e, n, ˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚ó˚░ ˚°˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚ɹ˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚ ˚⃝/⃝/⃝/)
I saw a crate full of records for sale at the record store at our local mall earlier this week. It’s one of those albums from the 1980s I’ve been waiting to hear for more than 30 years.
My car chugged to the gas station to pump up my check account.
At first glance, I didn’t pay much attention.
One by one, the workers came by and engaged me in conversation about life and the value of my purchases. As they were retiring to their lounge chairs and slippers, I smiled at the record wrapped in its bright yellow storage box.
I was ready to go home and dust off the album collection and relax for a little while.