The sound of the sun - purple, orange and red - cresting over the brown, tree-spotted hills. The voice of the beams, pure and forlorn, another day at work at this. What beauty can swirl down the drain, what lust and love can mimic clouds encircling silent, invisible wishes. The music of the Pacific Northwest dream (nightmare) pop band, Beatrix Sky, is the stuff that shoots the starting gun, the race for your heart and gut to sink low and wallow before the inevitable up-rise again.

The corporate abuse to make sonically appeasing non-dissonant jams is too high.
One day ima shove it to these rich prick cock suckers to show em that I’m too fly.

I can’t compete with them, but I can speak against them. But first I have to do my work and make a name for myself. Which has proven next to impossible, with a privatized health care system, rich racist capitalists and other horrible systematic abuses.

At least the soul is still there(faintly and periodically) not a constant hum.

I can make it work, if I find a way, I’m a show it to em. Then usher in a new era of thinking and freedoms.

Otherwise our planet is fucked.

Followers of First Lightning