Hello! I don't have all that much interesting to say about this one. Thanks for reading.
The ideas spill from your pen onto the paper one after the other although none of it necessarily makes sense. Once decided, the plan was easy enough: a concept album. Beginning with your demise and rebirth, ending with your acceptance and embrace of your situation, perhaps even continuing beyond, documenting your entire descent into becoming a monster.
Oh, but you'll be acting. Your secret will still be safe. You'll pretend to be a human who's pretending to be a zombie. There's so many layers you'd be giving yourself a headache if you still got them.
Your concepts so far are many, bits of English interspersed with the groaning zombie vocals over varying synthlines. It's punk, it's synthpop, it's goth, it's new wave, it's all over the place and yet a cohesive whole.
Or it will be, once it's finished.
The name is still a mystery. You have ideas, but none seem good enough. You know someday you'll stumble across the perfect name, but for now you simply call it The Project. It serves its purpose.
Hey, take a second, fast forward:
A tour: clubs, pubs, small, dirty, intimate, the lights flickering on and off erratically above your head, barely enough outlets available for your equipment. No arenas, no stadiums. Today you are not Fame. You are 2D, you are Stu, you are you, dressed up in blood and guts and the pretense of being yourself-not-yourself. You look out from your tiny stage-perch on hundreds of bodies pressed together and you're barely hanging on but you make it, you make it.
You groan hungrily at the crowd and they show no signs of fear. This is a show, yes, this is acting, but it's a different kind of acting from what everyone thinks. You press a few keys and groan again at the writhing mass of flesh that stands before you. What you wouldn't do to jump in and eat as much as you can. But you don't. You push the thought from your mind. You have control. You've made it this far, and you have control. You glare at the crowd, apparent king of the zombies snarling like Idol, but then you raise a hand in a friendly wave and your face splits into a wide grin. Your fans cheer and you open your hungry mouth to give them what they want.
Here:
synthetic sound realistic corpse
a zombie carries no remorse
just fingers keys dead and numb
a synthesizer deaf and dumb
Words directly from your heart, your metaphorical heart perhaps, the real thing long gone. Some of the only words your audience can understand. You spit them like roses, long dead thorny things that crumble upon contact. The words are harsh, cold, raw, real, but you're the only one who realizes the true meaning.
And the crowd goes wild.
Wait, stop, rewind: it's not the future. It will be the future someday, but you still need to get there first. Be patient. For now you sit in your room and write and think and play and adjust and decide and procrastinate but one day you'll tell the world.