It's a beautiful day, and I am playing songs of triumph at earsplitting volume with the windows open.
2 rights make 1 wrong
A simple loop over and over, and the world seems like a magical place. How is it that such beauty can exist in a song, I wonder. How can a guitar lift my soul to this place, so close to heaven. And then the horns, like the angels piping in the glorious apocalypse, the wheels of the world previously turning out of synch are now connected as one. All is right and the serene happiness that floods my soul cannot be explained with mere words.
A crescendo, building and building to a release, an eye in a maelstrom of noise, bringing expectation of the next part.
Passing by
The bass shakes the walls, and the windows rattle in their frames and slowly, slowly like the aftermath of a sonic orgasm, the music starts to twitch and fade, electronic stutters and masked voices and slowly a banjo, twanging out a post-coital narcosis. The elements start to emerge as the seperate parts they are, and a heavenly choir sings me into blissful floating transcendance.
The power of music is both humble and humbling. We rarely take the time to really listen to it, and yet so many of us have come to rely on it for our spiritual wellbeing. No other art is as pure, no other art speaks to the soul in the same way as music. It is the original form of communication, the rhythm mimicking the beat of a heart, the melody aping the processes of the brain.
All that we are is music and memories.
2 rights make 1 wrong
A simple loop over and over, and the world seems like a magical place. How is it that such beauty can exist in a song, I wonder. How can a guitar lift my soul to this place, so close to heaven. And then the horns, like the angels piping in the glorious apocalypse, the wheels of the world previously turning out of synch are now connected as one. All is right and the serene happiness that floods my soul cannot be explained with mere words.
A crescendo, building and building to a release, an eye in a maelstrom of noise, bringing expectation of the next part.
Passing by
The bass shakes the walls, and the windows rattle in their frames and slowly, slowly like the aftermath of a sonic orgasm, the music starts to twitch and fade, electronic stutters and masked voices and slowly a banjo, twanging out a post-coital narcosis. The elements start to emerge as the seperate parts they are, and a heavenly choir sings me into blissful floating transcendance.
The power of music is both humble and humbling. We rarely take the time to really listen to it, and yet so many of us have come to rely on it for our spiritual wellbeing. No other art is as pure, no other art speaks to the soul in the same way as music. It is the original form of communication, the rhythm mimicking the beat of a heart, the melody aping the processes of the brain.
All that we are is music and memories.
We are all made of stars. And gold, I read yesterday, can only form in the heart of a supernova. So all gold comes from supernovae...