Warm Bodies - Pg 57

   Slowly, I stand up and go over to my record player. I pull out one of my favorite LPs, an obscure compilation of Sinatra songs from various albums. I don't know why I like this one so much. I once spent three full days motionless in front of it, just watching the vinyl spin. I know the grooves in this record better than the grooves ini my palms. People used to say music was the greatest communicator; I wonder if this is still true in this posthuman, posthumous age. I put the record on and begin to move the needle as it plays, skipping measures, skipping songs, dancing through the spirals to find the words I want to fill the air. The phrases are off key, off tempo, punctuated by loud scratches like the ripping of fascia tissue, but the tone is flawless. Frank's buttery baritone says it better than my croaky vocals ever could had I the diction of a Kennedy. I stand over the record, cutting and pasting the contents of my heart into an airborne collage. 

   I don't care if you are called--scratch--when people say you're--scratch--wicked witchcraft--scratch--don't change a hair for me, not if you--scratch--'cause you're sensational--scratch--you just the way you are--scratch--you're sensational... sensational... That's all...