Michael Sibilia

The solidity of architecture that surrounded him, and as his eyes met the buildings through the aperture through the window, he felt an inspiration for creativity. He wanted to recreate his songs under the very guise of the architecture, and that it was there to aid him as he leaned over his guitar glancing at song structures written in tidy notes. He was as fastidious in writing music as he was at anything else in life, and he knew he had made it, someday he thought they’ll see the architecture in how I see it, the very inspiration behind the album will bring a imperceptible characteristic to my music, in which no other musician will acquire, for it was too prudent, too careful, and much less vain than anything I’ve heard. The thought was ephemeral, short lived, as his mind continued to race over his vocals. The guitar in his hands felt pertinent, his voice echoed in the brick walks outside, in the corridor, in which resonated below as the townspeople gathered to hear the very musician.

They too as they gathered, realized it was far from ubiquitous, and far too unique of a style to ever be heard of, and many knew him in town as the musician who had made it, who played for the people, with always the most sincerity in his heart, and he always played from it, he always resonated with the very soul of the music itself, and as he played it was very clear that he was very much alive, and they were too, as their ears perked over this forgotten music. He demurred and put his guitar down, electing to take a nap. His dreams were both succinct and discordant and the weather that now cast an ashen sky over the walks outside. As he awoke from his light dreams he had both a moment of déjà vu and serendipity, and that in epicureanism he had had these same dreams before, and that he had awoken from naps in months prior to the same feelings, and in convivial mood he resided in bed realizing he was almost finished with the very album he had been writing for over a year. It soon turned