Out here at the edge.
Out here in the blackness of space it's hard to know where the bass ends and the voice begins...
Here on the bridge of the last great Kilminster class ships.
Engines pounding with the endless thrum of bass lines.
Perpetual feedback.
Too fast to live.
Too old to die.
We search space for the thing we lost.
The spirit.
The hope.
The core of Rock.
We lost the younger crew years ago.
Victims of Ego and Caricature.
Half of our older members succumbed to White Line Fever.
So few of us left now.
So very few.
There was a time when Gods strode the Earth.
There was a time, an age, of song.
Searching.
We need it back.
And the irony?
Heh....the irony.
As age creeps and wracks what remains of this body I suddenly realize.
We left it on Earth.
We left it at home.
We left it in the old man's glass at the bar.
In the cracked leather.
In the trenches of world war one.
The skies of world war two.
In the chrome.
The oil.
The steel.
In the sweet memories.
The sweaty anticipation of youth.
In the lump in the throat of the 14 year old hearing 'that intro' for the first time ever.
Thinking...
I want to play like that...
In the raised middle finger that screams
"Fuck you. Fuck your conventions. It's my life.
It's my way or No way at All."
The Spirit we searched for is here...
It was all along.
In us.
Let us do it justice.
Sleep well Big Guy.
Thank you.
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