A tinny, battered record of Neil Young’s “My My Hey Hey (Out of the Blue)” teetered awkwardly on the record player, every scratch evidencing well-worn sound, intricite, deeply pressed.  She sat on the floor opposite him letting the music fill the airy space of her bedroom with intimacy, sounding ancient.

I found this tidbit in a notebook, and I wish I knew where to go with it.

I wonder how many other little snippets, cutouts, sentences, are lost in the dredges of past notebooks, and I wonder if there ever was an intent for those little pieces.

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