Jim, stepping closer and his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, said. “Precisely! That's the whole damn point. We're not just musicians, we're poets of the night, prophets of the electric storm. We need to paint our own landscapes, ignite the fire with our own truths, even if they scorch the earth.”
Ray’s eyes gleamed. “I like the fire metaphor, Jim. But where do we start? How do we tap into this... wellspring you're talking about?”
A sly smile played on Jim’s lips. “Look inside, brothers. Look at the shadows dancing on the walls, the whispers in the alleyway, the dreams that haunt you in the dead of night. Let them bleed onto the canvas of sound. We'll riff, we'll jam, we'll howl at the moon until the melody takes shape.”
Robby gave a hesitant smile. “You make it sound so easy, Jim.
(Extract from The Door's Fire by Dyva Gibbs)
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