by Yuki
It’s a cold morning — the kind of chill that marks the start of ordinary autumn days. Of course, the heater is on.
Last night was fun. Two of my friends appeared on a local FM radio program — one as the host, and the other as a guest artist. Both of them spoke in a rather formal way. I sent a message to the station while the program was on air, and it was read aloud. They knew it was from me, but on the air it was introduced as a message from a complete stranger.
After the program, both of them sent me messages. It felt so strange — hearing my two close friends talking on the radio, while my own message was read as if from someone they didn’t know. The whole thing felt like a kind of performance.
Last night was fun. Two of my friends appeared on a local FM radio program — one as the host, and the other as a guest artist. Both of them spoke in a rather formal way. I sent a message to the station while the program was on air, and it was read aloud. They knew it was from me, but on the air it was introduced as a message from a complete stranger.
After the program, both of them sent me messages. It felt so strange — hearing my two close friends talking on the radio, while my own message was read as if from someone they didn’t know. The whole thing felt like a kind of performance.
No comments:
Post a Comment