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The Last turn of Turntables

There's many records in the library,

Each with the imprint of another's soul.

These records are singular symphonies,

Symphonies lasting for hours on end,

For the turntable doesn't tire.

And the records keep spinning.

Each day I seek the turntable,

Choose the record and set it spinning.

Circles of music,

Prodded forth by the needle of pain,

For melody can only be made in cycles.

Rising with crescendo, falling with bass;

I'm journeying through,

Each step I take,

Is choregraphed to these tunes;

And this semblance of familiarity,

With the melody's movements;

Gives me controlled respite.

One day, I buy a new turntable.

Nothing wrong with the old one,

But singular melodies don't entice me anymore.

And I select two records,

One a soft, soft melody of love;

One a poignant number, with rearranged broken chords.

As the needles pierce the records,

Something rises within me.

The normalcy of melody has been shredded.

I revel in this cacophony.

My steps falter.

I trip,

I fall;

But oh! This fall is so sweet.

The pain feels alive.

I have awakened another within me,

And its steps don't match mine;

But we make a good pair.

Oh, can you hear it?

I anticipated the choruses to coalesce,

But one overpowers another,

And then another takes over as one stops,

And then they overlap;

Sweet agony.

Pain dances in revelry and satisfaction.

Pain is happy.

And I'm, but a mere slave to the cacophony.

I buy another turntable,

And another,

And now my home is filled with turntables.

16 in total.

16 different melodies,

All together.

It's an unending pleasure.

My steps don't stop anymore,

And my inner melody is shaken.

Shaken, good.

It's like I'm moving with the intensity of 16 others.

Move, move, move.

They scream.

Move, move on,


Turn right,





But these moves aren't enough,

It wants more.

They want more.


I scream,

One with the 16.

My lungs screaming with pain.


The happiness of pain.

Climb the walls,

On the tables

On the sofa

On the now burning flames

Where the source of my sustenance

Is long overdone, and now burnt beyond repair.

On and on,

They scream -

On and on!

Scream - on and on!

I have to find someplace higher,

This isn't enough, they say.




Up the chimney,

Up the roof,

Not enough, not enough.

They scream!

They look like a man with feathers now.

A man, black as crow,

With feathers,

Claws and beak.

And many voices.

He's following me.

Run, run.

He opens his mouth and 16 voices scream -



I'm running along the roof,

16 floors up.

My home is far away now,

The melodies are strangely silent.

All I can hear now is screaming,

All I can smell is the burnt food,

All I can feel is fear.

He's catching up,

Wait, isn't he me?

I stop,

One last turn for the turntables,

And run at him.

He's shocked!

But he's smiling now.

He runs towards me,

Space ends and we embrace,

And he opens his wings,

And I fly away.

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