We used to play music in shelters. Get vinyls from abroad whenever we had the chance. If any of those records turned up in local stores, M. would break them — just so we could have the exclusivity of owning them. This was Beirut, in 1985. If the whole country was going to hell, our music wasn’t going with it. It was our life. Our time. We were 15, 17, and 18. All I have from those memories, and others that are much older, are tapes that I found in a box, stored in the attic. Some memories are as old as me. I hear myself talk, I am a stranger's voice that seems to have belonged to me, but got lost somewhere in time. Somewhere in this Pandora sound box that I decided to organize one day.