In My Day

January 31, 1999


Back then was a style of all its own. A disc that was held onto replays the passion all over again. So few remain in the flesh for these days have outgrown us all. We are generations ahead but somewhere in between was frozen. My flannel still holds the smell of stale smoke and sweet cannabis. Art was unusually raw but this was used to get the point across. Tonight, at the end of another weekend, I have to ask myself, “What was the point?” If this is where I am now, what was the point?

Author: Lindsay Niemann

Writer | Graphic Artist