Taking an imaginary taxi to an imaginary flea market, because there’s an amazing record shop in the back corner beside the old lady with the farm stand. All the 45s are still in a sleeve, and it’s not really organized at all, but the old dude that runs it fills up a cardboard box and writes the date as two digit month two digit year on both ends in big black sharpie, and discourages you moving things between boxes with a handwritten sign on an old pizza box that says “DON’T SWITCH ITEMS BETWEEN BOXES, I DON’T WANNA HAVE TO GO THRU ALL THIS SHIT AGAIN TO FIND SOMETHING” so I know I just start in the past and work my forward, and have to trust the process. He told me he finds a lot of these records in old abandoned houses or from folks who are passing on and want to get rid of their favorite stuff to make sure it goes to people who will appreciate it. He could itemize all these records and maximize the profits by selling online or in one of those hipster ass gentrified “vinyl” shops, but he told me he just wants people to enjoy the music, so he just makes sure they look good and clean and he stuffs them into boxes and let’s folks sort through it themselves and buy it cheap. “That’s probably not best for business though,” I told him one time when he explained all this to me. “Yeah, you get assholes that get mad you hadn’t gone through everything and picked out exactly what they want and charge them a higher price for it. They got more money than time, so don’t wanna put in the work of digging through a bunch of boxes for treasure, because they think everything is as simple as buying it.” And I couldn’t disagree, naturally, because it’s an imaginary flea market that don’t exist, and why this world is not my home. I can’t have my treasure here.
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