We don’t need drums. We don’t need guitars, or even bass. We don’t even need to hear the faintest words. We crave atmosphere. However that atmosphere comes around, be it calloused fingers plucking strings or measured, timed punches to a mechanism, we’ll welcome it. We’ll welcome the soundtracks to our finite, untallied days. We’ll welcome the vibrating hallway echoes in our ear canals. The background noise will wash away. No engines, gears or rattling exhaust pipes backfiring. No screaming from under the rip tides. We’ll perch on the mountainsides of our lower-level streets peering curiously at the grey landscapes as we breathe in the clouds. Toxic vapours fusing with the newfound fire in our lungs, exploding inside of us.
[White Blush.]
So good!