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Now, it is more apparent than ever; /mu/ can make its own music. From here on out, the discerning /mu/ patrons won't have to so much as listen to other peoples' heads cracking. We can listen to ourselves, all the live long ear.
Now is a political time. Bloomberg. Corporations. Airplanes. Billions of people. Very few of us immune. Right now. So hard to peel the skin off of the fruit that we've truly robbed of its solitude. You make a commitment, you put your head down, and you chalk up. You make commitments until you can no longer legally stand on your own two feet, because someone else needs them. You're not to be held responsible until you're acting on your own accord. And then your ceiling caves in, and a wooden beam crushes your head against the East wall of your stairwell. The white wall, that you'd never painted. It was like that when you moved in to your house, new. You figured that you wouldn't bother painting it, just to induce the hallucinatory concept of making a difference. You'd die eventually, whether or not your walls were the color that your son wanted. And now, you've been dead for awhile. Things are blooming in the fridge. Twenty-seven instances of your family have come to your door over the years, looking for you. Last time they saw you, you were apathetic. Lost all your hair, apart from your beard. 426 years later, and they still want to see you—but the Sun and the Moon and the Earth are moving so fucking fast in their orbits, and the clouds are tearing a hole in the regions of the atmosphere that they've roamed along all this time, and your skin is clenching against your bones faster than the cobwebs can grow around you,
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