From frequency of feedback

Sounds of frequency, feedback, drums, and cymbals--the haunting voice comes in occasionally but he is the minority in this soundscape.

But his voice is what resonates.

Five+ hours of hearing him sing, and every five minutes and 19 seconds, he takes me back to that fog-filled place, where everything is in dim lighting and soft focus; where I'm not alone, but we are because all regard for others is neglected. And the sound is damaged because the speakers are, and so are we.

///there can be no wrong in this, and I can do no wrong in his eyes, he implies\\\

My vision strengthens to dreamy hues of black and grey, the bronzed blush of dewy skin, and a deep, dark, blood red--the colors are savory as is the sound of flawed feedback. It's psychedelic and sexy, pale and devoid, and it all fits--like the the beauty of death or the chicness of heroine or the liveliness of goth--it's morbid and right; it's damaged and perfect.

I listen to my hearing get damaged, and as it muffles, his voice echos and turns hollow; his calls sting me as they travel from the recesses of the cave--he won't let the vision and its sounds rest. He demands their frequency from me, and twists the frequency wires and prods my bare heart's sheath with the bare wire tips, forcing me to listen as he repeats the feedback. I have become his sound system, and the frequency streams from me.

I thrash back and it jets forth in wide reverberating ribbons, pocked with veteran filters, blown out from sounds blasts that have come before. Yet, whenever those sounds were born, wherever they've crawled, whatever their past that brought them to this formation, they are now as they are meant to be.

///the feedback can not be wrong from this, and I am damaged and beautiful, in his eyes, he implies\\\

And the song loops again, feedback chips away a bit more at the sound and the speakers--doing more damage and creating a new frequency.