Sun, of course. I have that album, an original 1968 pressing. The edges are frayed but the colors of the photos are still twilight-vibrant. Now, let's put it on, and ride the needle in the groove all the way to the bright midnight. The end of the night.
There'
(more)s no place like the landing strip on the floor in front of the record player, plush carpet flattened by the unfathomable weight of a starving girl. Lay with me there, third eye trained on the water-spotted ceiling, and I will tell you every secret I ever locked like clockwork codee inside myself. Turn to me, and watch the old eyeshadow bruises blossom across my skin. Feel the tidal pull as my ribs swell up and out of the sea of flesh, and as they sink down again, crushing my leviathan heart under years of water.
Then look away, friend, so that I can flip the record. Wait through the scratching. Settle on your back again, eyes closed against the burnished afternoon sunlight. The B side is ready for you now, and so is She. Don't open your eyes. She's heard these stories before, but She is patient now. Let me tell you about the high desert, the ocean, the dank wildwood where it began. Let me tell you the stories. I want you to hear them with your eyes shut, because before, you saw what happened, now I want you to believe it. My voice shakes but I won't stop speaking, this is the second side, the last chance. I need you to hear this and our tine is finite. The bright midnight shatters us. Give me your hand. Here's a gear, here's a cog. Take the veil, take the rosary. Remember for me. Wait for the sun, for me.(less)
