So much for practice, for dexterity, for emulation, for process.

For processing is king
Now. And from now,
Until.

Allure in the all-powerful
Power-station,
All at my disposal
Though I despise more and more

The vastness of the virtual,
The sonic truth it damns
For the sake of convenience,
For the calling of fools.

The art is poached,
Bagged, and butchered
To nourish the moronic masses,
Relying on their base nature

To consume, to feed,
To gulp it down
Til their senses dull
To anything different,

Anything profound.

Take your zeroes, your ones,
Find your fortune.

I'd rather strum around
Those telling embers
With a clumsy choir
And miss.