The other day I screamed about my problems to the world. I stood on a platform and yelled at ten thousand people. I had three others expressing their pain through guitars and drums.

I yelled about drugs, screamed about sex and wailed about family. People cheered and clapped and whistled.

I’m an empty shell, venting my void into thousands of souls. They call it music.

I am dead to the world.

Before I went on stage, these other guys did. They played sweet melodies enough to make me cry. But all they were seen as, was my support. My introduction.

The dead musicians support group. What a title for the ones who actually played music.