I am sick to death of hearing yet another person say they have a Record Label. No you don’t. If you have a label then what are you putting it on? Saying you have a Record Label is like saying that you just bought the rights to start making buggy whips again, which might actually have a niche market. Anyone with a computer and internet access can have a record label.
Please stop and just tell us you have music to listen to and where we can check it out if we want.
I found this completely on accident and could not help but share it below.
It came from here:
My old girlfriend had Dissociative Identity Disorder – multiple personalizes. One of her alters was created from whatever part of the brain controls dreams. Her name was Shy. She remembers a time before she had consciousness, before she could come out and talk. If Freud had been right – Shy would have been pure superego She hardly ever spoke and used to write anything she wanted to say in a little pink notebook. She had beautiful cursive handwriting, and wrote so slowly that it would drive anyone nuts. She had no malice towards anyone, even her rapists and abusers. She was at peace with her small existence, and understood what would happen when her brain would start functioning better and she would die. One night we were having dinner with some friends. Shy was eating with us. We started talking about God. Finally we asked Shy
“Is there a God”
Shy thought carefully for a moment. The table went silent. Finally, she smiled and carefully wrote her answer and showed us her notebook.
Then she thought for another moment, leaned across the table and whispered her first words in months.
“But there should be.”
All the children out there on the road and aloft in the streets
Jamming needles and whiffing rails
Reaching for what will not come or was never there
They do abide with a restless slumber
Nightmares shake their steps and haunt their waking
Upon the widening gyre
All has come undone
The beast turns its head to rise on the burnt out offering of a new Bethlehem
Chaff of the field torched over
The earth beneath it cannot hold the sad tidings and has been irradiated by them
No more will grow here
There will be no song for the burial of the spirit(s)
There is an endless pyre upon which we sacrifice ourselves
The flames lick us greedily to taste our skin
To kiss our hot tongues and take our dream
Into the abyss we look back to others and our vacant stare
Pulls you into our pupils
Into their depths to die with us
As the flames pull us down to dance out our last reckoning
A whimper poof as we are charred to dust
And blow across the treetops singing with the wind
A requiem so sad the robins hide beneath the wing.