These words will mark the standard four. With four before and only eight more to complete them all. How frivolous in retrospect yet often I am found beset by details of a song you will never sing and melodies that swing like a door on a well oiled hinge.
Nothing owed, nothing lost, the intellectual gains are not worth the cost. The sound can do bizarre things to you. Please consider the toll of the die that you roll. Next century has the solution to your current brain pollution. Step back and adore the applause.
The classics remain as the audiences change, what was celebrated tomorrow will be devoured and forgotten by yesterday. A blip on the radar that never returned. The hair on your palms that you singe and burn. Extremities ought to be the gate through which you pass to illuminate.
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