It was these first desperate attempts at putting music to our misery, wailing away at words stolen from long-forgotten notebooks: "I save my money, but it can't save me / And I wish I knew just how it felt / To be free . . . " The overweight drummer pounding out a jagged reconstruction of a broken heart and a world-weary audience of the finest human wreckage around, laying witness to this, the fatal fucking outcome of our dead and decaying adolescence.
It felt as though fires were burning inside of our lungs, manifesting themselves as an army of syllables torn violently from the throats of so many black tie suicides. The kind of fire a man would gladly allow to burn him down to ashes and framework, if only so he may embrace the perception of hope and warmth . . . you know, the kind of concepts that grow dimmer in meaning as the years carry on.
Within the confines of this growing maelstrom effloresced a momentary union of reverie and understanding, lacing the crowd together in one final rapturous chorus. Within our hearts grew the singular notion that the echoing of our words would be enough to keep the outside world at bay, even as these walls continued closing in so fucking fast around us.
One by one, like the burden of dead leaves in autumn we surrendered our sweat-soaked bodies to the ever-present pull of gravity. Spinning out of control, bracing for the eventual kiss of concrete against my face, but a crowd-full of arms were ready and waiting to break my fall.
As the final strings of hope holding us together ripped away a growing fervor engulfed the audience. Soft yet malign it undermined the rhythm with a crystal-clear melody to all of our darkest fears: "It took you so long to find the words to write this song, a song that you could all still truly believe in, but even you don't truly believe that we can still start again."
Then the blood-stained guitar was ripped from my trembling hands, and . . .