There’s discomfort in my heart today. I’ve spent the year with absolute peace. But today, something is bothering me. So, I’d like to write and tell a story.
Before COVID-19 was ever a thing, I had this idea of a fictional album. The album title is “When The Satellite Fell”. A story about the aftermath of a catastrophe. The satellite was floating above us, observing our every move. Controlling us through communication, through news outlets, through the static of radio transmitters.
I have a half a dozen drafts recorded for the album already, a dozen different versions of artwork that follow the pattern of the theme, nine different voice memos to layer around the songs, and many other aspects of the album that are currently being fleshed out. I wanted to bring a full story to life in a way that I’ve yet to completely do.
I wanted the story to be sci-fi, dystopian, and set it in the near future. I had no idea that certain aspects of this concept would become a reality. I’m continuing to write the story, and gather resources to make it a complete album with a foundation that blurs the lines between reality and exaggerated fiction. But as each day passes, exaggeration is becoming harder to create, because that exaggeration is actually here right now.
There are bubbles to protect us—a glass cylinder that shields us off from the world around us. Today it’s for a single virus. Tomorrow it’ll be as normal as headphones.
There are masks that are covering the faces of majority of the world. It’s not unusual to pass someone in the streets and see them wearing it. It’s all for protection. But it’s also part of our uniform now.
The economy is shut down. Physical locations are