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.LP \& .ce .sp |4.25i .PP .ps 12 .CW ░ New York, 1987. .PP .ps 12 Thomas sat and fiddled with his pocket radio. .PP .ps 12 Either .I sound .R had changed, or he had. Nothing sounded the same. In point of fact, he didn't even recognize what he was hearing. He spun the dial up and down the spectrum, confused. So far, 1987 was diminishing returns. .PP .ps 12 "Tom, you're senile." Piro laid a hand on his shoulder. The gesture had always annoyed him. .PP .ps 12 "You're too familiar," Tom said, and shrugged his hand away, righteously rejecting this invasion of his personal space. Didn't care if Piro \fIwas\fR his brother. He hadn't given consent, so, keep your fucking hands to yourself. .PP .ps 12 Contrary to expectation, plugging in the balanced cable had .I reduced .R apparent bass response. Subjectively. Another hundred bucks down the drain. Thomas didn't really understand what he was doing, but this didn't make any sense. He diddled again with the connectors, to no effect. .PP .ps 12 "I \fIhate\fR music," he said, to no one. .PP .ps 12 "Oh, it's not \fIall\fR that bad," sighed the Chrysler Building Classic. .PP .ps 12 Thomas muted his visor.