“The Platinum Collection is for beginners,” she said, smiling. “This is for the real journey.”
The record store was a dying thing, smelling of dust, old paper, and the faint ghost of cigarette smoke from a decade ago. Leo ran his finger along the spines of the CDs, looking for nothing in particular. He was a man who collected silences now, not music. His wife had left in the spring, taking the sonos and the upbeat playlists with her. All that remained in his apartment was a cheap CD player and a void. franco battiato the platinum collection
“I’m learning,” he said.