Inside the car, the driver had inserted THE TAPE. I knew THE TAPE. I knew THE TAPE well. My translator, a student called Huyền who sat in the back of the car, knew THE TAPE, too. In cafés. In bars. If it weren’t for whiskey, beer, and devilish homemade spirits, when THE TAPE came on you could be forgiven for thinking you’d arrived in a waiting room halfway to purgatory. The advice I have for you, if you ever find yourself in the presence of THE TAPE, is firstly to leave. Don’t let that musical thumbprint plant itself inside your brain. You will never be rid of it. I speak as one who suffers.
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