unhappy hour

My boyfriend Chris and I were at a friendly dive bar in Rossi where everything was polished by nicotine.
In addition to Jukebox
The recorder is new and its computer screen is cheerful and glowing and looks like a particularly dazzling. T. M.
Music is not from records in a CD or actual record player, but from a huge database somewhere on the Internet, and maybe even from outer space.
This place is filled.
Chris grabbed our pitcher and topped the glass of our second round.
We stopped to listen to the song we just started.
Slowly accumulated
A Low Hum accompanied by simple, temporary piano notes.
They left. . . ting ting. . . .
\"Has no one played this song before? \" Chris said.
We are waiting to hear more about this song.
No more.
Only Ting and TingAnd ting again. \"Before when? \" I asked. \"Before, uh. . .
Chris put down his glass and thought. So did I.
In our eyes, we all have distant eyes, reach out and try to remember.
This song is especially suitable for spacing. Ting.
The last record player we can recall was Pinke Freud\'s, but that was actually before a whole beer.
We realized that this new song has been playing since then and has now steadily sent out unmanned aircraft and random settings for nearly 10 minutes.
Sounds like beautiful music floatingtank therapy.
Miller\'s not that much. Lite-and-video-
Game therapy, the kind you get at Rossi.
Chris looked at the screen.
\"That explains this,\" he said . \"
This is Brian Ino\'s song.
The song was called \"on Thursday afternoon.
\"I don\'t know much about Brian Ino.
I know he is a highly innovative artist and a very important producer, and he often wears a lot of ostrich feathers in his 70 s.
I will read later that he is experimenting with a style that he calls \"holographic\", which is created according to mathematical principles, in a series of repeated loops where each component represents the whole cycle.
Technically, this is not a rock-and-roll whole.
Soon a girl approached the record machine and stared at the screen. \"Is it stuck?
She did not ask anyone in particular.
Or skip, or. . . something?
She walked away.
The song continues to sing.
I poured the rest of the beer.
The TV above the bar is \"dangerous!
\"We tried to follow in a silent state.
Chris visited the men\'s toilet.
Chris came back from the men\'s toilet.
\"The song is still playing,\" he said.
\"Because it is.
People sit in their seats, stare at the record machine, and then take a look at the Michelob super clock.
I read a woman\'s lips in the conversation opposite the room;
I can definitely say the words \"song\" and \"My God.
\"The song has been playing for about 25 minutes and sounds exactly the same as at the beginning.
But the paradox is that the situation is worse. Two college-
Older people came up to seriously assess the record player as if they were checking for damage to a car.
\"Who is this?
One of them said.
It\'s like yoga music.
\"They looked around, but no one of the twenty people in the bar admitted to playing 20-odd-
Yoga songs.
At this point it\'s getting like a 30-odd-minute song.
Ad \"when does it play my stuff?
Asked another college student.
This seems to be a hypothetical problem so far.
Elsewhere throughout the bar, the beer bottle label seems to be more fidgety and peeling than usual.
Darts seem to miss the target more often. Ting. . . ting.
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\"Where are we going for dinner?
\"It\'s hard for me to say.
We had a second beer.
Chris shook his head.
\"We can\'t go.
\"Either he wants to stay until the end of the song, or the song makes it impossible for us to leave the bar, which is physically and inexplicably impossible, just like the Bunuel movie where no one can leave the dinner party.
Imagine replacing the brass cylinder in the music box with a mobius band made of a nerve end, and after 45 minutes you may feel the feeling of \"Thursday afternoon.
The atmosphere in the bar is close to the hostage crisis.
A college student always said, \"I put 10 yuan in that thing . \".
\"This is not right,\" said an old man near the bar . \".
\"It\'s not fair.
\"Four male customers personally investigated the record machine.
They feel like they are looking for buttons or switches along the side of the machine. We all watched. \"Turn it off!
Someone shouted.
\"I\'m not going to turn it off!
The bartender called out suddenly.
Everyone turned to see her.
There was silence in the room.
Someone paid for the song.
So they get their songs, \"she said in pain.
\"When you guys play that head, you think I like it --banger stuff? \"Ting. . . . Ting.
These people left the record machine.
If \"Thursday afternoon\" lasts for a night, that\'s it.
After an hour and 50 seconds, the synth gradually turned off, and then the synthesizer drone stopped.
Then there was a silence, and then there was a burst of applause in Rossi\'s speech.
We all looked back at the record machine.
There are any songs on the screen. Any Time.
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