"WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU? DON'T FORGET WHERE YOU ARE!"
How could I forget where I was?
People say Beethoven described the trombone, "as if it were the voice of God Himself."
If that's so, this was the voice of the Devil. A red tunnel vibrates with bass rumbles. the paint shakes loose. The San Andreas has nothing on this.
Euphoric. Melodic. Epic.
A musical brawl that gives me a full body blow. A belly flop into an ocean of bass. Everything rumbles so hard that it makes all my hairs stand up and listen. Hot as Hell and sweat pours down my face but I don't even notice. It's a state of bliss. They are modern day Zeuses and Hephaestuses. Every turn of a knob is like a thunderbolt of pulsating air shocking my body. Every press of a button like the magnificent and awesome strike of metal on metal. My body is electrocuted into wobbles. It commands me, it compels me.
Nothing short of glorious.
Everything moves so slow but the music courses through my veins at a million miles per hour. This gas kills. The lamps burn. My ears ring so good.
-
It's a numbed red amoeba. A body made of bodies. Never together again. Nerve endings cut. Guilty black shapes that lurk. Made out of the darkest of blacks. Roaming against shimmering city views and glittering night skies. Free of chains. Hot breathes of freedom on our necks. Cool chill of morals against our skin. Smells like a cave.
Smells like summer.
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