Take II

Writing doesn't take

I've lost a connection I had to it.

I may regain it, maybe this is just the fog.

Or maybe the fog IS all there IS. Everything else was an illusion.

Hallucinations undermine the idea of reality, possibly. Everything is possible.

Possibility is a reverie. In a field of tall grass. Images and symbols and words. Chrome-steel metaphysical skeletons and great masturbators. Good music, bad writing.

Then there was something about desert island discs. If I was going to choose some albums to be stranded on a desert island with, I'd choose the music i liked the least, because anything I took to a desert island with me would, being my sole link to my lost civilized world, be listened to a ridiculous number of times, until oversaturated and stripped of all worth. This happens to music when abused, I've fucked up a lot of tunes for myself this way. Therefore, I'd rather the best music remain fresh and vital in my mind, some never-again tasted bittersweet neuronic resonance. Much better than having it ruined through sound-abuse, only bad music should suffer that fate.