At the set of the rising sun we’ll embark on an episode of complete failure. I will stand behind a degenerate generation of hopeless romantics who are addicts of music full of clash and sound, vibrant noise and style of violence and attitude that makes us all want to dance the protest. The wall that separates us all is constructed from bricks of racism and indifference founded by the masons of our past. These fortunes we inherited are only social problems paid out in bonds of war and slaughter.
We meet up as the light dims when the fuse is lit standing in our dress shoes. The perpetuating sound of recoil gives us the bass line of rhythm. The clatter of shells bouncing off the field of battle is the key. In unison we quote our forefathers, we quote the foundations of freedoms and thus these lyrics are born. For years, with hands clenched tightly, we will dance. A swing dance with signs is our weapon for the future. Some will be lost in the apocalyptic crowd and be sent home in a lidded bed with silk lining while other will stomp a new declaration of independence endorsed by the stepping of high heels.
This is me.
