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But the soul?

That it’s gone.

The hunger?

Gone.

The rage that used to bleed through every bar?

Gone.

That thing people always said my music gave them…the feeling that someone out there understood them. That they weren’t alone.

Gone.

So I stop.

No soul.

Just another algorithm-friendly track.

Another trend.

Another copy of a copy of a copy.

Sure...People would probably eat it up.

It’d debut at number one. Break streaming records overnight. Collect another plaque to hang on a wall I barely look at anymore.

But that’s never been the point.

It never will be.

I didn’t claw my way out of hell just to make the same empty music everyone else is fabricating.

I make songs because I want people to feel something.

I want them to scream the lyrics until their voices give out. I want them to cry. To heal.

I want some kid sitting alone at three in the morning—cold, scared, convinced the world forgot he exists—to press play and realize he’s not drowning alone.

Because once upon a time…that kid was me.

That’s what music did for me.

It saved my fucking life.

So the least I can do is return the favor.

Frustration crawls beneath my skin and suddenly I feel like I’m suffocating.

So I rip the noise-canceling headphones off and toss them onto the console harder than I mean to.

I drag a hand down my face when something on the wall catches my eye.

The massive television behind Zymon is muted, but I don’t need the volume. I know exactly what it’s says.

Khao’s Controversial Exit from Hadex still Divides the Industry.