Ode to a Record Player

The vinyl spins in a meticulous
manner. The music emits its wonder.
Scratchy, and slightly distorted. But
miraculous nonetheless, how a simple
tune can bring you back in time; back to that
era. the vinyl has aged, and so have you. But for
some odd reason, the music has kept its youth.
Every lyric sung still has the same meaning.
But yet, why have we changed so much?
It's as if parts of us have been lost within
this contraption. It knows all of our secrets,
but it would never tell. It only speaks through
the music. Ah, the record player. Such a clever
body of knowledge. It knows us better than we
know ourselves.