we make beautiful music all day. we drink and dance and play. we sing songs like choirs and our fingers, growing sore, dont complain. we chorus refrains like sonatas and nothing gets in the way of the sound from our amplifiers, the sound from our towering spires of inspiration and given outlets. tremolo and vocals. we are put in an envelope of warm sound and slowly intoxicated by cold drinking it in. the cups grow empty and we grow full and the music builds and we scream out melodies like birds. like caged birds set free. like caged birds on the wing.
we touch each note with delicate hands and let it ring, let it stand alone and with the choir, and alone and with the choir and the tone of amplifiers rings the key. and inside the each of us, notes build up and release, like a hand holding the keys to some stone door. we can only open it with singing. we can only open it with the ringing out of the long a minor. and the fullness therein is trampled flat and stacked upon, and trampled flat and stacked upon to keep the music thick and deep, to keep us on the full side of it. to keep, to keep us lovely and young and ready to become whatever the tune foretells and what our harmonies spell in the clouds of smoke rising off burnt cigarette butts and smoldering hearts. burning apart. burning in two, burning in me and burning in you through the skin. that we're in.
the music and the Popov wear in. and the song begins. and the song begins. we play all the instruments in reach and play together. the same song forever, the same sweet melody. minor and major. it matters little, just so long as the song moves on. and we are carried in it's wake like a branch out to sea and are rolled and smoothed and finished by the working of harsh to gentility.