burning legs and a thick cough, something to awaken sleeping demons, the messages and murals on churches, the rocketing skies and feelings of self-disintegration. practice your heart out and become the very very best. you are worth it.
percussive words like shrapnel in our sides, bursting at the seams, always there and always available for use, no matter how habitual or disrespectful, each combination is a drum fill of lost consciousness, the kind of fill that sounds like the drummer fell headfirst down a flight of stairs with shells and rim clicks, the cymbals ring and breaking with cheap sticks, kick nightmare, mic up the afterlife and lose self in the void of words and new found love, glory be yours, intrepid navigator, you are in the realm of the gods with such caress or flow, jaunty excursions through time-space and keeping tempo with the rhythm and the heartbeat of the world.
realize genre-specific go-to drum fills.
practice to metronome and grow robot arms.
