Pop life.

Fizz, swizzle, bump.

Fizz, swizzle, bump.

The needle is stuck in the groove and though the song is over, the record never ends.

Fizz, swizzle, bump.

Fizz, swizzle, bump.

Fizz, swizzle, bump.

The fuzzy clicking signalled so much: the best of nights, too drunk, too tired, too happy to get up to switch the record player off. The start of love: too busy kissing, too busy undressing to pick the arm up and place it back in its cradle. The end of love: too unhappy to move, too miserable, the crackly repetition going round and round like your mind’s going round and round too, stuck in the groove of a dead affair.

Fizz, swizzle bump. Fizz, swizzle, bump. Fizz, swizzle, bump. Fizz, swizzle, bump. Fizz, swizzle, bump. Fizz, swizzle, bump.

Do you miss it?

But before the record ended, it had to begin. A warm, crackling hum beckoning you in to a new world, unheard, or heard and now possessed.

Let’s play.

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