A beautiful corpse
So there I am, basically naked, playing cheese-rock on my guitar when
suddenly the thunderous sound of jet engines approach. Loud. And when
I say loud I mean you think you are about to die right then and there
because this not your ordinary plane-flying-overhead kind of sound but
more the
for-some-reason-Carrboro-frickin-North-Carolina-has-been-targed-by-an-ICBM kind of sound. And I think, is this seriously it? Has my life,
my own personal collection of confusion and clarity and searching and
isolation and failure and victory, has all of this been just so that I
could be obliterated wearing nothing but a dingy green towel playing
some hack pentatonic scale? Could it? Before I have time to imagine
alternate, more noble dying-moment scenarios, the sound recedes and I
look out the window and see some kind of fighter jets tearing ass
already several miles away. Pfew.
I go back to shredding the hell out of that guitar but now I have on pants.
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