Lord Cao Cao: dubai has fallen, and lububu has surrendered. He promises endless matcha for sparing his life, but I fear having seen the GenZ stare of Dong Zhuo and Ding Yuan we should not be so quick to trust.

In my travels I discovered an ancient tradition of musical folktales preserved through the eons in practice and performance. I wondered if the souls of the performers were as old as the art itself.

Bright lights of Americana brought me to the heart of the culture and in it I found only my own suffering. Between the aisles of jerky, counters of fudge, and mountains of memorabilia, I could only imagine all the joy young prodigy musical kids must experience being in such a whimsical place. Hell.

God wasn't there either, apparently He deals in BBQ sauce.

I went to the crossroads, knocked on hell's door, and found no one home. I was willing to cut a deal: my everything for the musical gift. To outplay all the prodigy musically born babies out there. I guess Satan was closed today. All I can do now is practice.

Is the algorithm a great mentor or my great tormentor. In this moment there is no difference.

Another night in my time out corner. How much longer until I surpass those prodigy babies who can play symphonies before they can speak. How much longer until I'm fluent in their harmonic language. The pain is too nearly much to bear, but there is only one treament. I will overcome.

Every day I log off my 9-5 at 6pm and prepare to face the world again. A world full of precocious children gifted with the hands of great musical talent. I take a long look at the setting sun from the parking lot and curse the life I live. Clock out at 6pm, lock in at 6pm. I will overcome.

I have traveled far, even to the heart of human expression. In the music of New Orleans I heard them, the overtones of the prodigy ghosts singing in choirs from Heaven above the French Quarter. My soul burns blue. Sad, but burning with an intense heat. A raging fire.

In the great stunning displays of mankind artfully demonstrating control over nature, I cannot help but feel a deep sense of despair. That even in places as remote as the Japanese countryside there are many babies born blessed with the support of musical family, which I was denied.

Even in great works of art I can see them. I can hear them. Their technical mastery. Even in the infinite depth of this Rothko painting I cannot escape their taunting. The prodigy piano playing babies of yore, their spirits weigh down on me like the world on Atlas's shoulders. I will overcome.

No a minute goes by that I don't see them. Those stupid, prodigy children. Born into musical families, gifted with technical abilities at astonishing low ages. It angers me. How I was not given what they take for granted. I will not rest until I play every baby to shame.