There’s a certain hour in every city where the traffic thins out, neon starts buzzing like tired transformers, and somewhere in the distance a radio tower keeps talking to people nobody sees. This feels like that hour.

People think digging for records is just shopping with extra dust on it. It’s not. Its intuition sharpened into ritual. Every pull from the crate comes with a hundred quiet calculations running in the background. The year the record was pressed. The label.