Desk chair still waiting

Cousin showed up mid-soundcheck with a ticket home and a smile that meant the ledger. Come Down to the Planet wrote itself before I finished the chirp check. I love them. I am not going back to toner as a personality. The blank stamp sheet in my case is a reminder, not a resignation letter.

Brakk's Opener nights still feel like sport — he sells the scream, I sell the smile that opens the door. Friendly rival. Shared bill. Fans treat it like a game and I treat it like gratitude with distortion stabs. Pit Warmup exists so the floor has permission to move before the grinder eats the mic.

Album is Four-Stamp. Heavy dial. Friendly face. If the family desk still has my name on the chair, fine. The pit has my name on the low mic, and that one I earned by accident and kept on purpose.