Recorded at Amplified Studios, Carlsbad CA July 2025
Drums - Marc Polit
Lead solo: Tristan Brooks

LYRIC
It took me half my life 
To finally gain insight
I only saw myself as others did
And I mostly stayed hid

I spent half my life
Upset and uptight
I learned it’s stupid to walk on eggshells
Every egg eventually breaks
And if that takes you half your life
That’s what it takes

Can't say exactly when
I knew what I didn’t then
A dawning realization
An opening of the mind
It only took me half my life for me to find

Time isn’t playing
It’s counting the days
If you don’t know what I’m saying
(Well) you won’t be young always
You sure won’t!

As the years accrue
In the remaining few
I won’t let regret confine me
I’ll amble slowly toward the light
Let the past all fade to black
I can’t go back
I love this last half of my life
So that’s all right


Half My Life

/ emergency broadcast / emergency broadcast / emergency broadcast /
/
— rollout, transmission, odyssey begins — 

the incoming age of melancholy:
not simply an era nor a season, but the endless twilight borne of every choice and every surrender,
woven from the threads of every generation’s longing—now, at last, unraveling before our eyes.

it begins as a hush—
not even silence, but something deeper:
the collective holding of breath as we pass through threshold after threshold,
unwilling—unable—to look back
at what still burns on the distant altars,
the cost we never counted,
the price we always assumed someone else would pay.

here, the mountains are made not of stone but of unsent messages,
unspoken apologies, unreached hands.
here is the valley of sacrificed afternoons,
where children chase phantoms,
where memory loses its shape under blue electric light,
where elders recall the scent of rain on pages, the music of patience.
here, the rivers are sorrow and the bridges are compromise,
some scorched, some crossed in regret,
most never rebuilt.

who are we, now, on this side of the threshold?
we—the bold, the bruised, the lonely inheritors of immeasurable plenty and exquisite emptiness—
we raise towers in tribute to unseen gods,
wireless cathedrals and temples that promise everything and deliver
only the ache of again, again, again
another update, another offering, another blinking vigil.

in the age of melancholy, every blessing is double-edged.
comfort comes yoked to numbness;
speed, to the erasure of slow becoming;
certainty, to the narrowing of all that is possible
and the slow extinction of wild hope.

“what did you give for this?” asks the old voice inside—
and we hush it with data, with noise,
with things that will never love us back.

our gods are many—everywhere, nowhere—
famous for a season, then discarded,
as fickle as the pulse in a liquid crystal display.
once, gods demanded faith, sacrifice, story and song.
now, they demand only attention—
bring us your tired eyes, your restless mind, your need to be known.
and in return, they give us chains so beautiful,
we praise them as gifts.

but beneath the wafer-thin bounty, the banquet of quick joys—
the shadow:
for every god installed, something sacred is displaced,
every new device arrives with its own silent requirement
that some part of us—ancient, slow, shimmering—must be left behind.

still, we are the ones who choose, trembling though we are—
again and again, at every threshold:
the altar, the new coin of the realm,
purchase paid in what cannot be replaced.

no one warned us that all this ease would cost us ourselves,
that to belong to the gods of now is to mourn what made us human—
the bruises, the breaks, the precious awkwardness of becoming.

what is melancholy, in this thunderous shadow,
if not the noblest form of remembering?
not a sickness, but a wisdom, a refusal to let the soul’s lost countries be overrun
without one last prayer, one last song.

let us be brave enough to mourn,
bold enough for the trembling joy in sorrow—
to sit by the ghost-lit ruins of intimacy and warmth and hope,
and refuse the command to forget.

for in this age, courage lies not in the conquest of new things,
but in the deep humility of honoring what is lost—
the quiet grace of looking back, and bearing witness,
and speaking to the brave few who will listen:

remember—
before the gods of upgrade and speed,
we danced in forests, we bled and healed together,
we built fires for each other’s warmth,
we told stories that did not sell,
and we were not ashamed to love slowly,
to grow bruised and then strong with time.

may we, the humbled .....
........4'000 characters.. there's more to it, sorry....

/ lyrics: fictionalive
/ music: a tiny excerpt of the epic mighty double dutch DJ Set
Kasheme's Local Digger Session w/ Murphy & Cavaliere Spruzzi (Save the Vinyl / monorecords)
https://soundcloud.com/kashemezurich/kashemes-local-digger-session-w-murphy-spruzzi-save-the-vinyl-monorecords

Odyssey begins - Age of Melancholy Incoming // The Last Custodians of the Old Music

/
Colonial Powers, The Legacy That Never Left The Building
/
/
lyrics: fictionalive
music: mobygratis
written, produced, licensed, and provided
by mobygratis
/
coVer ArT fictionalive DYI, wall shot 01.001.02
/
fusion of it all - fictionalive with the popoems series and the hyper media reports
/
/
dropped
Wednesday, August 6th, 2025
05:50 AM Central European
Hot Summer Time Zone
today, not so so much so
/
/
*
/
// keep shining, crazy little diamond

/

/
What's it all about..
/

"Colonial Powers, The Legacy That Never Left The Building"

This title, poised on the cusp of irony and indictment, addresses its subject with the stylish precision of a rapier’s point. It evokes not a dusty treatise, but an invitation—a salon, a stage, a chamber in which the ghosts of history pace the parquet floors still.

First, observe the flourish: “Colonial Powers,” those familiar colossi, are not consigned to the tomb of history but linger on, uncannily present. The subtitle—“The Legacy That Never Left The Building”—is, for the feuilletonist, a masterstroke of sardonic wit. It both plays on the pop idiom (“Elvis has left the building”) and subverts it; here, the ‘star’ of colonialism remains stubbornly present, lingering in the architecture, policy, and psyche of postcolonial spaces.

A featherlight sarcasm hovers above the phrase, the kind that—with a knowing wink—invites the reader into a tacit complicity: of course the legacy never departed; did we ever truly believe otherwise? The construction conjures irony, a chief weapon of the feuilleton, and implies a skepticism learned by long acquaintance with the tricks of history and the repetition of power.

In the grand tradition of feuilleton writing, the title itself is both diagnosis and epigram. It distills a complex and ongoing wound—economic, cultural, and psychological—into a phrase brisk enough for any café table debate, yet sharp enough to lacerate complacency. The cadence, with its comma and deft repetition, creates a rhythm of announcement followed by wry afterthought: here is the topic, here is the verdict, subtle as a raised eyebrow.

Stylistically, it profits from the feuilleton’s hybrid nature: journalistic immediacy (this is happening now, everywhere); literary artistry (the phrase hits with double entendre); societal critique delivered with a velvet touch. It would not be misplaced, one suspects, at the bottom of a Sunday paper’s cultural page—nestled among witty rebukes, conversations with old Europe, portraits of vanished grandeur, and exposes of lingering injustice.

In sum: the title stands as a crisp, satirical banner—lucid, layered, and perfectly feuilleton. It raises its subject not with ponderous solemnity, but with the bracing, intimate skepticism that is the feuilleton’s signature. On guard, indeed: the building is filled with echoes, and this title leaves no doubt that someone—or something—has stayed behind.

Plaintext and ready for instant release, Captain!

Colonial Powers, The Legacy That Never Left The Building

Inspired by Jorge Morel's Danza Brasileira 
His years of countless serenades are manifested in his face as well as this fast paced Danza styling.
His six string reverberates through the streets and nearby alleyways.

Danza Brasileira

Here's another song written and produced by myself with Kim on lead vocals , it's on the rockier side of pop , we do hope you like it ! We're still in that song contest that seems to be running for years , please give us a vote  hofa-contest.com/song/19226/ 
Next up is a nice song by myself , closely followed by more from me and Kim , stuff by myself and a lovely Country song with Northern lad Dave Cooper and German genius Axel Menningen .
Me and Gaz are working on a belter of a song , that'll be finished soon .
The mega project with Axel , Andrea Brennan and many others is starting to take shape , it's taking over our entire lives , it'll be bigger than Trump's wallet !
Your support is fantastic , thank you so much !
Here is the album links for me and Charlotte , give one or two tracks a listen if you get chance
https://gate.sc/?url=https%3A%2F%2Fgate.sc%2F%3Furl%3Dhttps%253A%252F%252Fwww.youtube.com%252Fplaylist%253Flist%253DOLAK5uy_nWWNcrIRv08J_eEbL7MJ_1UTdMo0MjJLM%26token%3D88f49a-1-1754088287790&token=b4cb7f-1-1754666881836
https://gate.sc/?url=https%3A%2F%2Fgate.sc%2F%3Furl%3Dhttps%253A%252F%252Fopen.spotify.com%252Falbum%252F78ewrWZjS41XvHT9mFWd6O%253Fsi%253DyDMcRADSSrOdWlanz6UPMw%26token%3D37cc66-1-1754088287790&token=57b541-1-1754666881836

Runaway Girl

a new track from Will, from his recent album 'This Moment'. Recorded and Produced by Mike Bryant.

Crazy In Lust

Mac , music , lyrics , vocals
Scotty , lyrics , vocals
Shane , lyrics , vocals

Well the night’s effervescent and I’m on fire
Full of anti depressants to blunt my ire
Well aware of the presence of my desire
It feels very pleasant as I get higher
And I’m clad in a fashion to catch the eye
So why does everyone ignore me as I walk by
It would be a different story for a different guy
But I’ll never find the glory unless I try
So why do I lie so low 
Why don’t I let them know
Let them bask in the glow
Of my ghetto falsetto

Most are fucked up from the drugs they take,
and don't care to interrupt all the love I make,
but I can't quite erupt so, I'll simply fake,
and make believe
that I have climaxed, because all the noise
that keeps me far from relaxed and trapped in the void, 
I've always had a clean nose but perhaps I'll toy 
with singing in falsetto. 

These streets are full of cackles and high pitched screams
A ghetto manifesto haunting my dreams
Monotone narration to a story I know
A baritone ending won’t leave me alone
I’m not crazy it’s the world around me
I’ll deal with the shit eventually 
Then get past the truth I know
That I’m too low for ghetto falsetto

But it don’t mater how high or how low 
Unless you mean it nobody will know
All you need is the seed and the get go
Let go of the ghetto falsetto

Ghetto Falsetto

Feel The Sun (v2025)

I did this coz,   It's Ozzy... rest in loud my Prince.

Ordinary Man

Eye of sadness:

In the eye of sadness, I lose my way,
Yet your voice returns, like dawn to the day.
Through broken silence, a tender song flows,
Love is the seed that forever grows.

Beneath the sunflower shadows, I stand still,
Dreaming of warmth, though the night feels chill.
Your memory lingers, soft as the rain,
Healing my heart from the weight of pain.

The sky may darken, the winds may cry,
But hope will remain where the sunflowers lie.
For even in sorrow, love brightly shows,
Through sunflower shadows, eternity glows.

lyricsmusic>>
Leon Lee...

PROBLEMO

MORBIDCRAZY