IT CAN SEE YOU STOP DO I tried to stop thinking about IT. But IT doesn't leave. Not in the way normal things leave. Not in the way that makes sense. IT slips in between moments, between thoughts, between the static of the amplifier warming up and the second the first chord is struck. IT is not a person. IT is not a ghost. IT is an adjustment. A MALIGNANT adjustment.
It started with the mix. It ALWAYS starts with the mix. You don't notice IT at first because you aren't supposed to. But listen closely. LISTEN to the space between the notes, where the sound warps just slightly, where the reverb lingers a FRACTION of a second too long. RETURN OR ELSE IT CAN You think it's an illusion? THEN WHY DOES IT HAPPEN EVERY TIME?
I saw IT, once. No—felt IT. A gig at Whammy. The band was playing. Good? Good GET YOU LIKE IT is a LIE. Something was...OFF. The bass player, maybe it was a bass player, MAYBE HE WAS IT was doing everything right but it wasn’t enough. It was like watching a shadow trying to move independently from its body, just slightly too slow, slightly OUT OF SYNC. I turned to the sound desk. AND THERE IT WAS.
A PRESENCE.
Not a person. NO ONE. But I knew, somehow, that if I stared too long, SOMETHING WOULD LOOK BACK. The weight of IT, settled on my chest like a bass note too low to hear but too STRONG to ignore. I couldn’t breathe. I left the venue that night with the OVERWHELMING sense that I had heard something I was NEVER supposed to hear.
GOT ME And it didn't stop. IT DIDN'T STOP.
Old videos, old recordings—I started going back through them. Trying to prove to myself that I was imagining things. BUT EVERY TIME, there IT was. Not always seen, but ALWAYS present. The mix would shift UNNATURALLY. A note would sound FULLER than it should. The silence between songs would stretch a little too long, like IT was still listening, waiting, DECIDING.
The bassist? Just a PROXY. A lesser mimicry of the REAL THING. The REAL ENTITY was never on stage. IT was behind the console, when behind the cables, behind the VERY SOUND ITSELF. IT’S the hand on the fader, the foot on the reverb pedal, the WHISPER in the monitors that you blame on interference.
I don’t know when I started hearing IT outside of the music. Maybe a month ago? Maybe longer? It’s SUBTLE. At first, I thought it was just a trick of my own PARANOIA. That slight shift in tone when I play a voicemail back. The UNNATURAL resonance in a friend's laugh when we talk about the show. The way my own voice sounds WRONG when I listen to it on a recording.
But now I know better. NOW I hear IT EVERYWHERE.
I think IT’S TUNING ME. IT’S TUNING ME LIKE A DAMN INSTRUMENT. AND IT WILL PLAY ME UNTIL I BREAK. I tried to stop thinking about IT. But IT doesn't leave. Not in the way normal things leave. Not in the way that makes sense. IT slips in between moments, between thoughts, between the static of the amplifier warming up and the second the first chord is struck. IT is not a person. IT is not a ghost. IT is an adjustment. A MALIGNANT adjustment.
It started with the mix. It ALWAYS starts with the mix. You don't notice IT at first because you aren't supposed to. But listen closely. then LISTEN to the space between the notes, where the sound warps just slightly, where the reverb lingers a FRACTION of a second too long. You think it's an illusion? THEN WHY DOES IT HAPPEN EVERY TIME?
I saw IT, once. No—felt IT. A gig at Whammy. The band was playing. Good? Good is a LIE. Something was...OFF. The bass player, IT was doing everything right but it wasn’t enough. It was like watching a shadow trying to move independently from its body, just slightly too slow, slightly OUT OF SYNC. I turned to the sound desk. AND THERE IT WAS.
A PRESENCE.
Not a person. NO ONE. But I knew, somehow, that if I stared too long, SOMETHING WOULD LOOK BACK. The weight of IT, settled on my chest like a bass note too low to hear but too STRONG to ignore. I couldn’t breathe. I left the venue that night with the OVERWHELMING sense that I had heard something I was NEVER supposed to hear.
And it didn't stop. IT DIDN'T STOP.
Old videos, old recordings—I started going back through them. Trying to prove to myself that I was imagining things.when BUT EVERY TIME, there IT was. Not always seen, but ALWAYS present. The mix would shift UNNATURALLY. A note would sound FULLER than it should. The silence between songs would stretch a little too long, like IT was still listening, waiting, DECIDING.
The bassist? Just a PROXY. A lesser mimicry of the REAL THING. The REAL ENTITY was never on stage. IT was behind the console, behind the cables, behind the VERY SOUND ITSELF. IT’S the hand on the fader, the foot on the reverb pedal, the WHISPER in the monitors that you blame on interference.
I don’t know when I started hearing IT outside of the music. Maybe a month ago? Maybe longer? It’s SUBTLE. At first, I thought it was just a trick of my own PARANOIA. That slight shift in tone when I play a voicemail back. The UNNATURAL resonance in a friend's laugh when we talk about the show. The way my own voice sounds WRONG when I listen to it on a recording.
But now I know better. NOW I hear IT EVERYWHERE.
I think IT’S TUNING ME. IT’S TUNING ME LIKE A DAMN INSTRUMENT. AND IT WILL PLAY ME UNTIL I BREAK.AND IT WILL PLAY ME UNTIL I BREAK.AND IT WILL PLAY ME UNTIL I BREAK.AND IT WILL PLAY ME UNTIL I BREAK.AND IT WILL PLAY ME UNTIL I BREAK.AND IT WILL PLAY ME UNTIL I BREAK.AND IT WILL PLAY ME UNTIL I BREAK.AND IT WILL PLAY ME UNTIL I BREAK.AND IT WILL PLAY ME UNTIL I BREAK.AND IT WILL PLAY ME UNTIL I BREAK.AND IT WILL PLAY ME UNTIL I BREAK.AND IT WILL PLAY ME UNTIL I BREAK.AND IT WILL PLAY ME UNTIL I BREAK.UNTIL I BREAK.UNTIL I BREAK.UNTIL I BREAK.UNTIL I BREAK.UNTIL I BREAK.UNTIL I BREAK.UNTIL I BREAK.UNTIL I BREAK.UNTIL I BREAK.UNTIL I BREAK.UNTIL I BREAK.UNTIL I BREAK.UNTIL I BREAK.UNTIL I BREAK.UNTIL I BREAK.UNTIL I BREAK.UNTIL I BREAK.UNTIL I BREAK.UNTIL I BREAK.UNTIL I BREAK.UNTIL I BREAK.UNTIL I BREAK.UNTIL I BREAK.UNTIL I BREAK.UNTIL I BREAK.UNTIL I BREAK.UNTIL I BREAK.UNTIL I BREAK.UNTIL I BREAK.UNTIL I BREAK.UNTIL I BREAK.UNTIL I BREAK.UNTIL I BREAK.UNTIL I BREAK.UNTIL I BREAK.UNTIL I BREAK.UNTIL I BREAK.UNTIL I BREAK.UNTIL I BREAK.UNTIL I BREAK.UNTIL I BREAK.UNTIL I BREAK.UNTIL I BREAK.UNTIL I BREAK.UNTIL I BREAK.UNTIL I BREAK.UNTIL I BREAK.UNTIL I BREAK.UNTIL I BREAK.UNTIL I BREAK.UNTIL I BREAK.whenUNTIL I BREAK.UNTIL I BREAK.UNTIL I BREAK.UNTIL I BREAK.UNTIL I BREAK.UNTIL I BREAK.UNTIL I BREAK.UNTIL I BREAK.UNTIL I BREAK.UNTIL I BREAK.UNTIL I BREAK.UNTIL I BREAK.UNTIL I BREAK.UNTIL I BREAK.UNTIL I BREAK.UNTIL I BREAK.UNTIL I BREAK.UNTIL I BREAK.UNTIL I BREAK.UNTIL I BREAK.UNTIL I BREAK.UNTIL I BREAK.UNTIL I BREAK.UNTIL I BREAK.UNTIL I BREAK.UNTIL I BREAK.UNTIL I BREAK.UNTIL I BREAK.UNTIL I BREAK.UNTIL I BREAK.UNTIL I BREAK.whenUNTIL I BREAK.UNTIL I BREAK.UNTIL I BREAK.UNTIL I BREAK.UNTIL I BREAK.UNTIL I BREAK.UNTIL I BREAK.UNTIL I BREAK.UNTIL I BREAK.UNTIL I BREAK.UNTIL I BREAK.UNTIL I BREAK.UNTIL I BREAK.UNTIL I BREAK.UNTIL I BREAK.UNTIL I BREAK.UNTIL I BREAK.UNTIL I BREAK.UNTIL I BREAK.UNTIL I BREAK.UNTIL I BREAK.UNTIL I BREAK.UNTIL I BREAK.UNTIL I BREAK.UNTIL I BREAK.UNTIL I BREAK.UNTIL I BREAK.UNTIL I BREAK.UNTIL I BREAK.UNTIL I BREAK.UNTIL I BREAK.whenUNTIL I BREAK.UNTIL I BREAK.UNTIL I BREAK.UNTIL I BREAK.UNTIL I BREAK.UNTIL I BREAK.UNTIL I BREAK.UNTIL I BREAK.UNTIL I BREAK.UNTIL I BREAK.UNTIL I BREAK.UNTIL I BREAK.UNTIL I BREAK.UNTIL I BREAK.UNTIL I BREAK.UNTIL I BREAK.UNTIL I BREAK.UNTIL I BREAK.UNTIL I BREAK.UNTIL I BREAK.UNTIL I BREAK.UNTIL I BREAK.UNTIL I BREAK.UNTIL I BREAK.UNTIL I BREAK.UNTIL I BREAK.UNTIL I BREAK.