In the vinyl, I see Saturn’s rings.
I see them scattered with snowballs, glowing in the oh-so-distant sunlight—
peacefully floating in their orbits,
occasionally saying hello to one another
with a little bump from time to time.

The music blends as the snowballs form;
bigger, greater snowballs that—
once having consumed all around them—
stay frozen in the pitch-dark nothing…
They remain, mute and humble—observing.
And they never melt away.

I snap back—

—back to the vinyl.
How beautiful it sounds.
Not a single scratch really hurts your ear;
it rather tingles the senses.
The scratch of the needle turns the etches into flowers.
Each note is a cloud, and I am floating on one,
drinking the melody deep into my body,
letting it melt me away into water.
I rain down into my chair, and—

—I snap back.

My body tickles as the speaker shakes the air around me.
It liquefies, turns upside down.
The violin is playing…
Oh no.

I forgot about this part.

I see the mirror in your room,
and in the mirror, I see you.
And next to you, I see me.
I am still inside the drop.
And I know that in a minute, it will burst.
It will run down your cheek.
Any moment now.

I snap back.

I snap.