Go and build a rope swing.

Well there they are, singing away, wasting the limited forest of tiny hairs that cover my eardrums and that will one be day diminished, because listening to things killed them. One day I will lose those hairs and no longer be able to hear. There will no longer be any receptors on my ear drum with which to receive sound waves.
No sound waves received, no hearing,
I’ll be deaf. And I can’t wait till that day comes. I’ll proudly go deaf and give up the search for something which somebody has proudly tried to express, with the dignity of knowing that they could not presume themselves to be good or bad but did express themselves in the way that they honestly thought they could do best. But so bombarded are you with thoughtless, sterile, easy to assemble parlour nonsense of distracting glamour, lights and shapes, the stuff that prevents you from paying attention to the content.
They give you an act, one that you can easily follow and re-enact for your friends. Blurt out catchy words that get stuck in your head and advertise to you through the day. They offer you rewards of indulgence, sex and over stimulation making you numb. You don’t use old brain; you use old cock, and tongue and gorge old eyes. It gets pretty fucking boring.
But I suppose it gets pretty fucking boring just using old brain. I mean, what is brain anyway? Just herd of cells slowly dying one at a time. Maybe pretty fast, depending on how you live your life. Fuck brain, I bet you won’t even see it in your lifetime and who needs a friend like that?
‘Go on,’ they say. ‘Buy our shit! It’s not very good, we know that but buy it anyway. Make yourself stupider and buy more shit. We want everything you got. Look, over there, the dancing girls and the flashy lights. No it’s not worth what we’re asking but take a look at that plastic finish, isn’t that nice? Buy it. You don’t have any money? Then get in debt, buy the fucking thing.’
And you get it home…and it’s shit. But you always knew it was going to be shit. It becomes just another building block on your ever growing pyramid of shit and you never think about it again. Meanwhile they spend your money on Cocaine and Caviar.
‘Fuck off, you can’t have a refund because it’s crap, fuck off if we’ve already taken all you’ve got, get the fuck out.’
No longer are you welcome in the trinket shop. The circus has left town.
And you get home, depressed because you can’t get more shit, to finish off your pile of shit. But then you realise that one day you’ll die, and you become happy… because in the cold, dark, quiet earth, you don’t have to make pyramids of useless shit just to be of value to your fucking place of living. You’ll no longer have to wade through tsunamis of bullshit music made by some person whose only concern was their appearance and selling angle, but otherwise don’t give a shit about music.
And the same for the rest of those parasites, mediating the modern world, industrialising our very being and turning what is essential and honest, esoteric and fundamental into a bad joke and sellable crap that not only pollutes the well. but spreads right on through rendering all creativity pointless. Creation carries with it a fire that has been lit since the beginning, our soul is in the fire. We’re trying so hard to put it out. Roll on blissful deafness.