The static on my Walkman finally clears, and John Waite’s "Missing You" cuts through the humid morning air, making me crank the volume just to drown out the screeching brakes of the school bus. My oversized sweatshirt feels heavy and damp against my skin, but I’m too busy fiddling with the dial to care about the heat.
Everything about this Monday morning feels totally grody, from the smell of exhaust to the generic news on the radio about some factory strike. I’m just trying to stay chill, tapping my fingers against my knees until the drums kick in and the world outside the window disappears.
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