I turned the knob to night,

and Dimebag Darrell’s sound sheared through the Antarctic ice of everyday life:

humbuckers ablaze-whole hands just a delivery system for the ultimate furnace of fun through bleeding fireboards that constantly upgraded music’s intergalactic intelligence level,

so that men like Charlie Musselwhite or a few million great metal fans could decipher into chromatic clarity as being not your mother’s molten notes of chord ripping chemistry ricocheting past asteroids

unexplored, unenvisioned,


like a big cup of battery acid blues blown through the amps of eternity.


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