Hot. Cross. Buns. Hot. Cross. Buns. One a penny. Two a Penny. Hot.Cross.Buns.

Chicago, IL-As formative memories dissolve through your thumb into a pool of blue light and the motion of endless scrolling, one shimmering vein in the suffocating coal mine of your head remains constant. A haunting tune lured out of hiding by tiny trembling fingers on an instrument that was born in a forbidden love affair between a flute and a goddamn tin whistle. The unwanted atrocity that was birthed would infuriate grade schoolers for years to come.

Loved only by the person foolish enough to try and teach 3rd graders music, the inexplicable obsession with the instrument could never be grasped by the students. The devotion to recorder maintenance, the torrent past of how the recorder came to be, the transcendant beauty it could produce if only it made a different noise when blown upon.

An unsubstantiated and blind zeal that was unsettling to everyone involved. Lowering their heads while maintaining uncomfortable eye contact with the class, they played their triumphant tune.

Nonetheless that plastic whistle with an engorged mouth piece and the only song anyone ever learned with it can still be found wandering the disintegrating, wallpapered hallways of your mind. Always seeking a glimpse at the outside world. Hot. Cross. Buns. Hot. Cross. Buns. One a penny. Two a Penny. Hot.Cross.Buns.

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