I'm exhausted from the hustle.
Twenty five years deep, honing my skills, paying my bills & I'm exhausted from the hustle.
Regurgitated beats, sounds, the churning xerox of another rehashed idea, served with hipster garnish to a diminishing count of newcomers.
Long lost nights & long haul flights heading nowhere in a blaze of neon, overseen through unclean car windows.
Pockmarked scattergun chatter - doesn't matter - it drifts and drains but the song remains the same.
Wasted jibber jabber, raucous ribaldry and rictus grins, where do I begin? Not so much 'let me in' but 'get me OUT'. I'm done. On the run.
You think the new revolution is ... recording to vinyl.
Does that change anything? Does it give your lazy drip drip tech (NO) the sheen of meaning, of validation? Black plastic no more fantastic than thrown down zeroes and ones vanishing into the meaningless void of data.
Throwback here, flashback there, a celebration of moments-in-time, bonding through escape, retreat.
Show me the silence.
Just show me that and we'll talk.
We'll drop pennies deep into the bottomless wells of our souls, sending ripples out into the world. Tiny, perfect, pin-pricks of sound floating on a haze of dreams.
We'll connect and fuse and never lose another minute to the treadmill blues of rib-rattle and tittle tattle.
We'll embrace a perfect life, find concord in the embers of dissonance, a spirited, spiritual harmony. You. And Me.
Twenty five years deep and still I can't and won't sleep - fretting and forgetting and letting go? I think so.
Mirror image into the 'me', it's time to set myself free.