The twilight was dripping down the clothesline as the current of the old record player flowed over the windowsill. The piano keys are like sponges soaked in water, each sound with a damp echo, mixed with the humming of the refrigerator compressor of the convenience store in the distance, and a fuzzy light spot in the room.
The rain suddenly became dense, like someone shaking off a wet scarf outside the window, the slight scratching sound of vinyl records taking the opportunity to get in, and the sound of keyboard tapping woven into a loose net. There was tiny dust floating in the halo of the desk lamp, which swayed gently with the low frequency of Beth. In a trance, I thought it was ginkgo leaves that had not been swept clean in late autumn last year and swirled on the floor.
When the last note gets stuck in the murmur of the tape, the shirt on the clothesline is still dripping, and the sound dripping into the aluminum basin just catches the blank left by the melody.
老式唱片机的电流声漫过窗台时，暮色正沿着晾衣绳往下滴。钢琴键像浸了水的海绵，每一声都带着潮湿的回响，混着远处便利店冰箱压缩机的嗡鸣，在房间里洇出一片模糊的光斑。
采样的雨声突然变密，像是有人在窗外抖落湿透的围巾， vinyl 唱片轻微的刮擦声趁机钻进来，和键盘敲击声织成一张松散的网。台灯的光晕里浮着细小的尘埃，跟着贝斯的低频轻轻摇晃，恍惚间以为是去年深秋没扫干净的银杏叶，在地板上打着旋儿。
当最后一个音符陷进磁带的杂音里，晾衣绳上的衬衫还在滴水，滴在铝制脸盆里的声音，刚好接住了旋律留下的空白。