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How can silence or expression stop or start here for anyone?
I could be a lot physically happier right now, but I finally transferred all of my music off of Bertie of blessed memory's hard drive and onto this still new and nameless machine so that I can listen to audio I have been missing for more than a year, which at the moment appears to mean a whole lot of primarily Boston-scene punk of the '70's and '80's and the 1993 BBC Radio 3 Sunday Play of Tom Stoppard's Arcadia because nothing cheers me up like hearing art school dropouts make weird noises and Bill Nighy moan, "Fucked by a dahlia!" The latter gives me a good excuse to link to this fic, which like everything else I read for Yuletide in 2023 got overlooked at the time. The former is currently making me feel a little unstuck, but it could also just be the state of my blood sugar. Have some Salem 66.
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Thank you! I really missed my music and everything that went with it! It was like unpacking a section of my books.