It was in the early 90s, when I sat together with two other students in one of the guy’s room. We had met to discuss some kind of stuff, no private things. The guys were befriended and shared their position, so I felt a bit lost in my orange plastic armchair. It was a tiny room in a Student Residence, with beautiful wooden furniture. The first thing I noticed when I entered the room was an impressive record collection, about 80 cm, I guess, and we were still young. I don’t remember the name of the student whose room we were in, I just remember that he kept taking the few steps to the record player and putting on another record or turning the record over. He did it as a matter of habit, a ritual. The music played quietly, you could listen to it or not. As for me, the music transported me far away, somewhere I had never been. I asked him about the music, but he didn’t seem like he wanted to make that an issue. I didn’t understand the band’s name and I didn’t dare to ask once more. I would have loved to browse the record collection or – even more tough – to stay in this room for a few days, just for my own. I remember the music, but I remember it in a subconscious way. In fact I don’t remember it at all, but I’ve been searching it since then.