And All The Tumults DoneAcquisitions have been made.
It seems to work somewhat like this; I have stumbled into (and hopefully help propagate) a network of people who have and uncanny knack for finding engines. These things take many forms, indeed: words, images, little pots of hot food on cool days. And music, too. Ah, music.
My brother, then, slides a CD across the table. It doesn't matter what he says about this particular, anymore, for I heave learned to listen, to heed, in every sense regardless. Because it is this: invariably, the songs he sends along creep up behind and take firm hold of things, and have that magical power of first flush: there is no help but to listen to then again and louder. Each time the turbines spin up faster. Each time, there is the very real possibility that the world itself, all of its water and rock and blood and bone, will tremble and shake, rippling raw again.
This is what the music industry is killing in spite of itself. I am pleased that, in this, it will always fail.
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