The radio announcer claims moments just ahead of midnight that the broadcast is more intimate at night, and you and I look at each other and agree that this remark itself takes liberties with the language and the airwaves. Now as if to prove his point, the hands connected to the voice have placed on the machine a sheet of vinyl where the needle can get at it, and we hear undue plucking with a filament too much vibrato, plus a modicum of jubilance beyond what's de rigeur. Schubert is threatened, and I remember now the DJ's boss once telling me that the announcers have collectively an ego the size of several counties pressed into a vise. We then transist into violins en masse. The music, far from hurting now, appears to match our atmosphere as we settle into smoother strings less hand-picked sounding. Here comes Mr. Majesty again, delivering post-vocalcade a gypsy-esque endeavor kindred to my mother's very own interpretation of la vie, despite an admitted preference for piano-gracious ornaments.
Confraternity of treble clef, chatter of trumpets at commercial time, desire for whispers
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