Where is inspiration born? Is it an immaculate conception carved out in the back seat of a lonely Buick that fills the virginal void of apathy and allows imagination to procreate? Or is it a communal mind fuck where we all must divine our most erogenous role in the orgy of inventiveness?
It's no coincidence, I suppose, I'm processing the concept of birth in the wake of death I've been experiencing as of late. The cycle of life presents us with such a spectrum of questions and scarce time to uncover their answers. Each moment gives us new life, a "rebirth" if you will, and like children we must be amiable enough to read the meaning of the footprints that populate the ground around us. The inertia of life can pull you into the realm of bitterness and fear. Rely on this moment to give you a new portal to explore your domain; a new canal from which you can be born again. (no christian-o)
This show skews towards rock but is peppered with a helping of soul. Hope yall enjoy. Dedicating this one to my grandmother, who raised hell till the moment she checked out of here, and I love her for it.
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