It’s the fucking music that has unmoored the young and turned them into a generation of slackers. (A slacker is a revolutionary who hasn’t learned how to think.)
Have you ever fired up a pipe and let its atonality engulf you? It’s a cacophony of discordant sounds, a succession of clashing flats and sharps with counterpuntal thematic motifs punctuated by sexually charged riffs and incoherent cries of pain and ejaculations, set to the thrombonic twanging of broken pizzicating strings plucked by the gilded fingernails of dime store hookers in synchronic counterpoint to the clatter and clash of metal against metal to the dull throb of thudding Tupperware.
Our only salvation is in a regressive return to the sanity of old, to the rigid structure of a formulaic tonality suppressed and controlled by lyrics that soothe and distract.
Sanity is sanitary and linear. It is totally predictable. It neither feels nor throbs nor smells nor palpitates nor aspires nor perspires nor urinates nor flatulates. It is, in short, the elimination of the frightfully unpredictable human factor.
Sanity’s gaze is fixed on the heavens even as it slides into the deepest pit of hell.
Sane music is that which induces sleep.