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  • No, not the drink. The song, by Biro. Late nights in the radio station, all the lights off, alone in an old brick building, the oldest on campus, cloaked by a dark night, drizzle dribbling nonchalantly down the windows. The warm, blurry glow of the translucent rubber buttons on the mixer—red, orange, and white, a warm campfire of sorts, warming my hands, my mind, my heart, as I spin around in the lonely, decrepit throne of 91.5 WWLR, but still enjoying myself more than ever.

    Now "It's Not Meant To Be" by Tame Impala comes on, and there I am, sitting in the green glow of the dials of my Subaru Outback as I head back up to campus for the umpteenth time, a hundred identical miles past and a hundred identical miles to go, the warm heat swirling around me from the vents as that same cold, crisp rain surrounds me. The faint yellow lines of I-93 racing by in the night, silhouetting the tropical orange car-freshener as it sways along with me to the music, the remains of a silent, private midnight feast left over in the passenger seat. Nobody but one or two lonely souls share the road with me, mere background characters in this play of mine, as if I were huddled under a blanket in my room at 6 years old, playing make-believe with my model cars.

    I won't ever get to experience these experiences quite like I experienced them before. But at least these songs will keep these memories on life support for me while I linger by their bedside, asking question after question of them, before they leave me forever.
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