In the heart of a city veiled by the fog of the unordinary, stood a peculiar boutique known by the murmured breaths of its patrons as "Record High." This sanctuary of sensory indulgence was where the air was rich with the fragrant offerings of the finest cannabis, and where melodies of the purest vinyl records filled the spaces between.
The enigmatic owner, known simply as Mr. AGE, was a man of profound tastes and cryptic origins. His eyes, shimmering with the wisdom of ages, would guide each visitor through his dominion of dulcet tones and herbal bliss. With each record, each bud selected by his discerning touch, one could not help but feel chosen by fate itself.
Mr. AGE was the alchemist of aural and herbal ecstasy, his pairings of music with marijuana opening doors of perception that many believed led to other dimensions. The notes would rise like spirits from the records, dancing with the tendrils of smoke that climbed towards an ever-twisting ether above.
Legends were whispered in the dim corners of The Emporium, speaking of a record so rare that its grooves held the echoes of the void, and a strain of green so potent it could reveal visions that danced at the edge of reality. And so it came to be, under the gaze of a clock that ticked in a tempo unknown to time, that Mr. AGE presented a record, black as the space between the stars, its surface etched with symbols of a forgotten language.
With the placement of needle to vinyl, a sonorous dirge filled the ro ..