Til the night you played me your scratched record.
It skipped it was filled with d is sona nce It had no consistency but its consistency of cacophonies.
Others would have thrown the record away, unable to bear its e rra tic ways. Others would have said it's Broken. Unfixable. A disaster. Too much.
But you , you weren't like the others. You did not want to throw away the scratched record; you did not even want to take the scratched record to a repair shop, for you , you somehow seemed to find a harmony in the scratched record.
So you closed your eyes to the endless loop of the scratched record and said It was the most beautiful song you've ever heard
Because to you, The most beautiful are the most broken.