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