Nena browsed casually throught the dusty vinyl sleeves stack by stack until every muted color, every hopeful smile was just another bleak hopeless blur of something that used to be a cherished song, a hit single, someone’s only vice.

She ran her fingers through her tangles of dark hair, pulling out a chunk, wondered if she should stop using chemical hair dye, and gently shook it from her fingers. It floated silently in the dusty air, and landed on the dirty red carpet of the shop. She sighed. She couldn’t find the record she wanted, but she knew it had to be somewhere, anywhere.

She frowned at all the faded Lawrence Welk, Bing Crosby, and Loretta Lynn records, took note of all the corny smiles and wondered where all the important records were hiding out in the world.

She flipped through them, pulling out a very tattered cover to the Plastic Ono Band, and flipped it over. Something thudded to the floor. Nena stooped to pick up the dusty moleskin notebook before anyone noticed.