I saw the skirmish title and did this not very serious version of an epilogue for FAWM 2021. Couldn't resist the chance to do a little ham acting voice. The piano is improvised over the spoken part. See you all in the summer!
It was finished, finally, undeniably finished. February had reached its tortured finale and a new March beckoned them to come forth.
And so the Fawmers and Fawmlings left their caves, shambling on unsteady legs unaccustomed to upright motion Their knurled coffee stained hands hangs limply by their sides. Their eyes seeing daylight for the first time blinked painfully and in awe at the sight of life outside of their own bedrooms.
Incredulous, at first they stared half in fear half in crazed amusement as they saw other people walking, working at everyday tasks that had nothing, no not anything connected with songwriting.
What brave new world is this? They asked that has no need of rhymes nor story cubes nor fora. And what creatures live here that write not, yet flourish so in such a world as now stretches out before us?
We can forgive them their lack of comprehension, their shock and awe. They bore still the battle scars of dangerous skirmishes into unmapped genres, perilous uploading and potentially fatal compound time signatures. Who can blame them for finding their first taste of freedom so confusing.
Free, yes they were free to find again the simple pleasures of a life without composition or yet collaboration. For some, salty tears flowed as if to cleanse the deep deep wounds. Others merely stared at their now empty and idle hands wondering what to do next.
And yet even before the first audible sighs of relief had stopped, before the last shudders of releasing emotion had subsided - somewhere in their songwriting souls they knew, indeed how could they not know, that it was but four short months, four fleeting cycles of the poets’ moon before they were summoned once agin by the iron wheels of Fifty Ninety.