Do you hear the desert’s wind sweeping bronze sand, or hollowness in the air, or snaky patterns seething, or vehemence liberated from heat waves, or tires whisking down ebony pavement, or Agnetha Fältskog’s watery voice spraying Waterloo into dry space? Do you see the sun’s dimples in rolled down windows, and the sunburnt face battling the wind, or eyes shut like oysters and the elastic mouth paralleling every line emancipated from inky speakers, or charcoal hair strewing anywhere? Do you hear her voice straining to reach soprano C and E, or Abba’s syncopated orchestra in the 1979 Chiquitita, with Anni-Frid Lyngstad’s alto B’s and C’s melting over sand, while Björn Ulvaeus’ guitar is crooning like a lost owl? Or 1984 Van Halen’s Jump while the Ford SUV is reflecting the fervent tapping of feet and ricocheting of hands as they spank the leather seats within pancake doors? And the staticy organ cackling in the beginning? And the solo of trombones and staccato beats of the drum, and Halen’s voice mimicking the flaxen afro sputtering behind tires, and the loops of changing Melodies and pitches like teenage volatility? What about post-punk Blondie’s 1980 song The Tide is High rolling through desert hills with echoes that multiply like algae in the sea, and trumpets belching among bubbling violins and mellow drums thumping, and her voice that glides across silky tunes, and the tropical zest swimming from the song like koi fish? Can you see the golden desert now, and the apricot mallows’ striving for the sun’s attention, and prickly pear cacti embellished with lemon blooms, and cottontails vaulting across the dry ocean, and Joshua trees dappling the horizon with roots that tiptoe under red rocks draining the dry ocean, while Abba’s calling for Fernando comes to a fade?

What’s that you say? I’m wearing headphones?