Notes Plucked to Hum, Heart Plucked too
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Metal tabs ping off one another, simple tones bringing forth the flood as a hand slowly cranks. Memories of the long gone, gently permeating the room as the atmospheric pressure rises.

Nine-hundred and thirty-nine in the lineup, all pluck the strings, but four sit in a high place. They transcend above the remaining nine-hundred and thirty-five, they move the gut and fill it with an almost indescribable emotion. Lead and cement, poured like birdshot into the stomach.

Outside of my own selfish world, the same still holds true. Though what moves me cracks itself on the wall of stoicism, ones that would crumble at me seep through the walls of those who pummeled my own. These are the ones that entice, inspire, and are worn as pleasure flows and erosion takes its toll. Amongst a crowd, a composition of pieces all colorful in their own right, they still stand out from within the amalgam.

Tired Fingers Pluck A Worn Guitar's Strings, Grey Fog Rolling Over A Grey City

Itinerary, monotony, inexplicable gut-wrenching
Wipe up the mess, don't let it sink in
The trains coming and going, trauma ever present
Crushed dreams drifting listlessly though the ether
Culled by reality, a stagnant existence forevermore

To find these Far and Few Between is to find a treasure. They float through the air, propelled by their own weight and presence. The oxygen we breathe is so saturated, so much to explore and become tangled up in, that these instances are made even more precious. Echoing down the dark halls of a mind, bringing forth unprecedented experiences. Every stroke is masterful, every thump is repeated by the heart, and the words are carved into the back of your mind so that it preserves itself in you. Words leap from the waters of memory like fish, their scales catching the glint of the sun, eliciting the rest to follow suit, rebuilding the melody again and again in your head. A Worm Of Gold.

All four that are seared onto my tongue are laments of sorts. All four are solemn in their own right, but all four bring an inexplicable joy. They feel so moving, so full, so encompassing. Treasure, Found.

It's pieces like these, ones that encompass more than they simply say, that become the ones that keep us up at night. A ceiling warping, twisting, as melodies reverberate softly from ear to ear, no source in sight. None, Save The Flesh Tape Recorder That Spins Ceaselessly.

A Mournful Guitar Paints Desperation And Tragedy, Burning Strings Scorching The Fingers

Stretching for miles, sandy wastes
Cherry red, spilled in times past
Languishing under the weight of the corpse
Sit up, take aim, five, then one

A needle drops and carves history, a finger initiates a string of code that calls it to stage, with a click the silver disc spins wildly as it oozes out, another click and waxy tape is pulled by the teeth of a gear, the sound falling into a cascade of cadence.

I return to these, again and again, like no other. Like No Other.

The Strings Drip With Vibrant And Viscus Sludge As The Guitar Pours Forth The Colorful Oil, Slicking The Fingers

Twisted paths, the horizon sinks into purple acid
Pulsating life, distractions to be woken up from
Party, petty, pointless conflict, conscripted

I grind vinyl down to a fine powder.

I crack my phone.

I scratch discs.

I chew through tape.

All so that I may experience these four again, again, again, again, again, again, again, again, again, again, again, again, again, again, again, again,

until the sound itself has hollowed out the canals.

The Afterimages Of The Strings Solidify As Time Crawls, Becoming A Haze Of Moving Fingers And Bronze Over The Faded Body Of The Guitar

White foam frothing from a pale sea onto a beach of black sand
Frayed existence in the midst of being unraveled, the space between

To find these Far And Few Between is to find a treasure.

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