Quiet, dusty bookstore in a small corner of the megalopolis.
Between the tomes glide alien tones of Hammond and Leslie, sonic statues striding in a minor key.
Attack, decay, sustain, release.
The dry smell of disintegrating pulp and the twilight of vibrato -- dusky notes of simmering violet, sage green and translucent oxblood... a constellation of miniature gongs resonate through the aisles that would bring to Toshinori-san a kind session of many smiles.
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