On that one morning when he put the old disk into the player and immediately forgot which disk it was, the music that played was music he had never heard before.
It did not surprise him; not at first. For even though he’d never heard this music before, it sounded familiar to him. So much so that he wondered why it was that more songs like that one were not written back then when this one was written (because of the way the song sounded – the timbre of the guitars, the chord progression and the backup vocals, he thought he knew when – or just about when – this song must have been written and recorded) and why disk jockeys didn’t play songs like this one more often. It was so happy and uplifting and he kind of floated around the kitchen as he cooked the bacon and eggs and it was only when he was scraping the food onto his plate and heading for the dining room that the song ended and he realized he had never heard this song before and did not have any real idea of who it was that played and sang in it.
He waited a moment and the next cut of the record was the one that had always been there, the one he had heard a thousand times before, and although this second song had been a personal favorite of his it sounded hollow and incomplete and old (old in a bad sense) like never before and he went to the player and pushed the reverse button to try to get back to the song he had first heard this morning but the only thing that played was the song that had always been there in the past and he tried to remember where he had heard that new song before, even though he knew that he had never heard it before and he searched his brain for some clue as to who might have sung it, who might have recorded it. But the more he strained, the more the beautiful music vanished from his ears and from his memory . . . .