Alisaura
Blue Crack Supplier
The fourth of July fades away, and the guitar enters, murmur and chime, almost echoing the same theme. It whispers in your ears, before the first thrill shivers through your head, left to right. The story begins, wistful, hopeful; a subtle hum building beneath, blending seamlessly with the murmur.
The drum's heart begins to beat; the bass slides in, wanders like a lost angel, walking through and around the song, trying to understand.
They grow together, slowly; drumbeats propelling the voice as the words unfold, unveiling images in your mind; heartbeat leading the bass' faltering steps; new colours bleeding in, mournful and plaintive.
The story tumbles on and on, building outwards, inwards, upwards, to the heart's piercing cry - an interlude of reflection. But the music rolls on, floating on the guitar's ceaseless refrain.
Building further, insistent cymbals, a litany of despair, the bass is stumbling headlong, the angel running in denial, colours all colliding, relentless rhythm, guitar growling an impotent anger, the heart howling against the wind, against the implacable current, howling its hurt... then the inevitable fall, to fade away.
The drum's heart begins to beat; the bass slides in, wanders like a lost angel, walking through and around the song, trying to understand.
They grow together, slowly; drumbeats propelling the voice as the words unfold, unveiling images in your mind; heartbeat leading the bass' faltering steps; new colours bleeding in, mournful and plaintive.
The story tumbles on and on, building outwards, inwards, upwards, to the heart's piercing cry - an interlude of reflection. But the music rolls on, floating on the guitar's ceaseless refrain.
Building further, insistent cymbals, a litany of despair, the bass is stumbling headlong, the angel running in denial, colours all colliding, relentless rhythm, guitar growling an impotent anger, the heart howling against the wind, against the implacable current, howling its hurt... then the inevitable fall, to fade away.
