Tiny red lights on the record player like small dashes of more to come. More sound, more staccato to account for. Building and receding. A tide --- just like that. A matter of fact. I don't know what to do with these visual representations of volume, bass, treble, so I use the bathroom, sitting down only to pee and take pictures of the smooth underbelly of my rented bathroom sink. I figuring its percentage out of two hundred and fifty dollars while Billy Holiday drains from the living room into the tiny bathroom and smaller quarters of my wax-filled inner ears. I used to love all of this but now I receive everything as something all too common, like when the weather is forecast accurately, leaving no room in mind for the thought of anything else.
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