A beautiful corpse
So there I am, basically naked, playing cheese-rock on my guitar when suddenly the thunderous sound of jet engines approach. Loud. And when I say loud I mean you think you are about to die right then and there because this not your ordinary plane-flying-overhead kind of sound but more the for-some-reason-Carrboro-frickin-North-Carolina-has-been-targed-by-an-ICBM kind of sound. And I think, is this seriously it? Has my life, my own personal collection of confusion and clarity and searching and isolation and failure and victory, has all of this been just so that I could be obliterated wearing nothing but a dingy green towel playing some hack pentatonic scale? Could it? Before I have time to imagine alternate, more noble dying-moment scenarios, the sound recedes and I look out the window and see some kind of fighter jets tearing ass already several miles away. Pfew.
I go back to shredding the hell out of that guitar but now I have on pants.