Once again, I’m indebted to my dear friend Cheyanne Turions for sending me this prose…

The Legend! sings the songs of Daniel Treacy (Unpopular)

words: sweetcheyanne

I believe every word of it he says. Believe it like they were his own. Sad stories spoken through the voice of kindreds in secret languages. Knowing that it is not simply a love for what comes across our path, but like a recognition heavy with its solitary weight. These are the scared correspondence of what we deem the important to be understood, lost in our hiding from the others who know not how to step lightly on things like hearts, scrap pieces with scrawling, treasures of intimate knowledge, and the fragile beauty of light. It doesn’t help that I met Everett True before I met the Television Personalities. My lover almost had me convinced that “Everett True” was just another incarnation of self in the grand tradition of persona, a same origin of incarnation playing with Daniel Treacy. I can see now that they are dissimilar after all. But his voice, the one who is now The Legend!, must have spoken these things many times before we came to hear them. What accompanies him is frighteningly simple. No pomp and circumstance here - unless you want the flailing glory that comes when the fire burns us from the inside out. Bright. Blinding. He’s screaming at the top of his lungs. Oozing. Voice is doing all this and I feel a protective impulse like shielding a child’s eye from the sight of a dead rabbit in the woods. I want to protect this voice. Protect it because I believe so strongly in it’s having been destroyed already, knowing that I would not have been able to stand it if it had come to me - these things which would call forth such a documentation. Like how I always dream of time travel and a going back to the self that was 17 and saying with deep reverence that, “It’s going to be all right”. With enough unprotected bullshit so that I, at 17, would believe it. Not because I needed to hear it then, though I did, but because I need to be able to say it now. As I would tell Everett now that there is NO sense of belonging, and he writes poetry already, always. I’m listening to this music alone. I feel fucking embarrassed for my words, all just, “tiny, stinging regrets”. Feeling most alive, do not deny it, when the darkness is blackness. These are only two songs. Two tales of what we fight to bury at times. Buried alone as punishment for its truth, eventually always. Lost already, these are two simple accompaniments that will scare you into admitting that there is joy hidden beneath after all.