言语痛苦

In the year 2022, music has devolved into a servile existence, pandering to the mainstream, pseudo-intellectual hipsters, pretentious critics, clueless parents, and the whims of the internet. We witness a sickening obsession with self-love, flaunting high-fidelity production while spouting empty platitudes about 'changing the world.' In the hollow commercial circles, artists belt out love songs, indulging in self-amusement, as the excess of self-awareness and extreme idealism revel in an absurd carnival.

As Occam's razor loses its edge and refined Lo-Fi music emerges from twilight; as post-modern capitalist society imprints the word 'definition' upon us all —— Every star now sings the cacophony of the material realm. In that millisecond, Thunder·Banana's brain comes to its cerebral explosion. Before it's thoroughly shattered, it remarks, 'Sounds good, but what’s the point.'

'Amidst the haze of compromise, all we get is sonic waste, drowning in the victory of conceit. So today, I endeavor to use...' The deified brass band, and the low-intellect pop across the strait, sounded at the same time as the grating wails of 808 drum machines all the way on the other side of the earth, causing them to vomit in disgust with the filthiest toilets in all of Scotland within their arms, interrupting our final conversation.

Thunder·Banana's brain bursts, soaring along the coastline and into the cosmos.