Diamonds Are Forever – Shirley Bassey
The air in the room changes when that opening figure hits. It is the sound of cold, pure-cut ice, glinting…
The air in the room changes when that opening figure hits. It is the sound of cold, pure-cut ice, glinting…
The light inside the listening booth was the kind of amber that made old vinyl glow, dusting the grooves with…
The air in the café was thick and gray, smelling of stale coffee and impending rain. It was the kind…
The light through the Venetian blinds was the color of faded lemon, and the radio—a bulky, wood-veneer thing perched on…
The car radio, a faint, amber-lit dial on a late-night drive, often acts as a portal. It bypasses the glossy…
The hiss of the radio was a familiar companion on those endless teenage drives. It was late, the highway was…
It is a summer day, 1965. The air is thick with the promise of endless hours, the smell of salt…
The memory is often sharpest in the dark. A cheap $home audio$ system sputtering out life on a late-night dial.…
The air was thick with something suspended—maybe dust motes in the single shaft of moonlight cutting across the den carpet,…
The air was thick and sweet with the scent of patchouli and possibility. It was 1967, and the world was…