Dust swirled in the golden light as James lowered the needle onto the crackling vinyl. The record whispered to life, a smoky blues riff filling his small apartment. He wrapped the strap of his electric guitar over his shoulder, fingers hesitating before striking a chord. The sound bled into the room, rough and imperfect, yet alive. He grinned—each note tethered him to nights long gone, when music wasn’t just background noise but survival. The records spun on, guiding him, reminding him that though the years had stolen much, the pulse of six strings could still make his heart race.
26 September 2025 | Rochelle Wisoff-Fields-Addicted to Purple
Therapy Bits 
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