Sound is a bastard to work with.
It's too human. The severed chords
fall in the image of believers, those
defined by their needs. An audience,
an obsessive lover, the blind unborn.
It's not a style. Muttered words,
violent guitars; you only raise
your voice when screaming. Now
you've pieced together the mirror,
but the image is still broken.
Mind. The white noise of pain
reduces you to an echo, your trace
preserved in the mix. The last sound
you hear is not a human voice.
They'll suck the hole in your head
to feed their loss. A child cries.
Nothing is transformed. All this week,
the rain tastes bitter and the sky
itches, trying to close itself up.
Your silence will go platinum.
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