Base drum hits my chest like cannon fire. A voice like windswept brushfire scorches my very skin. Must be a Rush concert.
Every heartbeat a bassline echo, but I am not caged. Barefoot and half-deaf with liquid joy. At the foot on Monsters, I am free.
Rhythmic pulsing pulls at my throat, and from it spins words I know by heart and soul and spleen. Yes, spleen.
Intermission. My ears are bleeding colored lights. I stand at the feet of children sprung from the pulsating forehead imagination. Dreams made flesh.
Synthesizer fever dreams, smokescreen light show, and three men captivating the soul of air itself by lighting it on fire.
20-armed steampunk drum robot freak of nature! Wait, that’s Neil every day…
My hearing will come back when its not hung over. Worth it. Utterly worth it.
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