or; Poetic prose about a 65daysofstatic song.
Waves of static pulsate,
tides of white noise,
punctuated by the fleeting beats of washed-out drums,
slowly emerging from a neolithic paste of tribal dissonance,
coalescing into the friendly, familiar sounds of a heavy beat.
Simple piano melodies wash in with the white waves,
bringing in tow the guttural guitars,
fuzzed beyond recognition.
Point, counterpoint,
piano and guitar dance like lovers,
diametrically opposed, yet ultimately complementary.
The harrowing, haunting bass serves as a guide to this cacophonous pleasure,
weaving these conflicting threads together to make a tapestry of sound.
Music is born in this instant -
engendered, rather than by meticulous forethought,
but by a spontaneous eruption from unknown founts.
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