The crackling stops
Dust is in the air
Everywhere I see
Something weird comes to me
Read all the labels
One more time again
Next could be the last
Time it ever plays
Last time it runs the dents
Last time it reads the grooves

I put the cover down
And get up off my bed
Walk up to the desk
Where the space a chair
Would be parked under
But underneath’s a box
With covers lined next to each other
Still space for more

And I extend my arm
To reach for a disk
And flip to the other side
Then move the needle on it

Audio comes into existence
The colors spin around
This blue marbled…
This brown marbled…
This red… etched and not
This silver or clear…
This black shellac record
Or standard that it seems
Showing off a movie in my mind
Until the end of the album comes in time