He was a skeleton with the skin drawn tight over his bones, with long curls like a woman’s and a shaggy beard. His face was yellow with an earthy tint in it, his cheeks were hollow, his back long and narrow, and the hand on which his shaggy head was propped was so thin and delicate that it was dreadful to look at it. His hair was already streaked with silver, and seeing his emaciated,14 aged-looking face, no one would have believed that he was only forty.

I picture forests echoing with laughter and shadows taller than souls.

I lie on my bed and close my eyes and think if I keep listening to this one song at some point he’ll be listening too. I know there’s supposed to be a backwards message and that it’s supposed to be evil but I don’t believe it.

our rooms are in the basement separated by one thin wall. My bed is against the wall and at night I can hear him listening to his music

he window is shattered and he’s long gone. The floor is littered with broken records. A policeman picks up one of the smooth vinyl shards and rubs his thumb across the grooves.

volume’s so loud I hear everything: the tinsel rain of cymbals and urgency of words. The music is hard and heavy with lyrics like poetry; he calls it heavy metal.