Work Text:
Andrew watches as the record spins continuously in place, cracking every few seconds. His eyes slouch over his vinyl collection, each record representing a memory, all pushed together to form a colorful array of worn-out spines.
This new band, Khruangbin, played out while Andrew stood there, gazing out past his collection.
They sound good, I hear they’re a newer band, if we ever do another late night tales I’ll make sure to add a few of their songs.
He stood there, wine glass in hand, a cheap but fancy-looking robe tied loosely around his waist. A thought lingers and is held gently in his mind, the loving, but painful memory of an unfinished love. He stares blankly at the ghost of its potential, the blantantness of what could’ve been almost deafening, yet it's held still and lovingly.
Ben
Benjamin
Benny
All these words repeated so many times they’ve begun to sound funny, almost foreign.
Almost.