One never needed a moon back then. When spring was as bare as a blue dream smeared with water colors. You could not crush beauty away or urge the sweet sky to scream. You could only whisper to shadows or smell the hair of a goddess in her sleep skin worshiping the night.
In which a long-time record collector and sometimes poet shares shares vinyl finds, words of worth, and plays keep or cull.
Chasing Perfect Sound Forever 