There is a ghost in your radio. It would live in your toaster, but it gets hot in there.
I listened in. I was entertained or inspired, I was dancing a fool, I couldn't help but feel sad, or anxious, disgusted, or excited, completely calm and totally inert. Each song a surprising apparition of ghoulish delight.
I was busy giving a critical thumbs down when the specter, wielding an algorithm and song relativity, granted my wish of a new and incoherently different jaunt from a vast pool of ones and zeroes. Of course I set the volume and the genre, I taste tested this new album from my desk, before letting it enter the hard disk.
Bus rides seem Sublime when my
Everyone knows that green, red, yellow, and blue, sometimes orange, are all the keys you need to play stairway to heaven. And why stop there, your family can fill in on any instrument you might need. They are, after all, proficient at an expert level. Hallowed songs of phantom rock-stars lost in an industry purgatory.
I also heard that the new 2-Pac mix-tape would be better than his last three, because Biggie and Eazy-e would be singing the melody. Their ghosts sending out new tracks once a week.