Whirlpool With A Good Idea

There's a place you go, when you are making music. When your voice enters the picture, and slots down inside, in between the two bristling azure-blue mountain ranges of stereo to your left and right, and it shoots along like a neon jet fighter, like the ghost of Luke Skywalker, like an improbable bird of prey, down the throbbing, lucid length of that ravine of sound and when it clicks in it is effortless and eerie and brutally real and insanely now and the sound, the song, that thrusts up from deep in your soul and erupts out into the atmosphere is muscular and hollow and transparent like a tube of water and pulsing and ecstatic and it is so totally your own voice that everything else about you disappears into it, feeds into it, until you yourself, as others know you, are no more.
The amount of energy required to deliver the song is the exact amount of energy that makes up your totality. So you have to continually circle yourself around the song, the sound of it, keep feeding through it, into it, out of it again, looping your entirety through it until you become a blur, a whirlpool with a good idea.

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