There’s a ringing in my ears. The left is flickering, picking up the faint sounds of the world reanimating. The right, well it may be out of commission. It’s stuck on an infinite loop, the cochlea a grinding chuff but of little use. This explosion of industrial sound; the rattle of war as brothers once bonded by peace are now torn asunder by mistrust and obstructed by smoke. It’s attrition and though my right ear may never regain its strength, its pulsations are comfort at night in a camp as hollow and horrific as one can imagine. There are the noises of the dying. There are the cries of the weak. There are the beasts of the wild, men turned feral by what man has sown. But the gears are still churning. Their relentless clank never letting up. We clock in, poise our bayonets, and wait for the howl and stampede of 10,000 high-heeled boots. It’s all just a beat to the docile ringing in my ear. We fight because we have stayed loyal to Robert Turman, his anarchistic music breaking us away from the savages of a world too eager to conform. It began at a nameless award ceremony, the hapless pop starlet engorged by fame exploding across the crowded theater. Now we fight off the beasts of celebrity, starved for the relevance and power taken away by wantonness. The music machine still quacks but we stand in the trenches, hands full of Macro to blast back the pack before we’re all callously swallowed by fashion police and paparazzi.
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