Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
Private Message | EchoZone Internal Chat
From: DeadStrings
Subject: New list?
Today, I realized that I’ve blown my life up, and I’m not sure if I can put it back together. The worse is that the one person who can help me is a charlatan. What would be your top five songs to overcome this shit?
StringTheory 27: Hey, it’s a little too late for lists, isn’t it? Hope you don’t mind me switching this to the chat since we’re both . . . awake.
DeadStrings: Chat is good. This isn’t late when you’re an insomniac.
StringTheory27: True. Let’s address the most important part. Charlatans are usually overly confident and weirdly good at eye contact.
If the one you’re talking about wears a suit and uses phrases like “realistic expectations,” you have my full permission to ignore them.
As for blowing up your life—I don’t know the details, but if you’re still awake at 1:39 in the morning and reaching for music instead of something worse, that says you haven’t blown it completely. Not yet.
Here’s your list.
Working title: “How to Crawl Out of the Ruins with a Half-Charged Walkman and a Bruised Heart.”
“I Will Survive” —Gloria Gaynor
Because it’s obvious, yes. But sometimes you need to hear strength shouted at you from a disco floor. Sing it with your whole heart while showering—it’s life-changing.
“Break My Stride” —Matthew Wilder
Because resilience doesn’t always sound heavy. Sometimes it bounces back, and that’s okay too. This one tricks you into believing you’ll make it.
“Don’t Dream It’s Over” —Crowded House
It reminds you that your story hasn’t ended yet, even when it feels like the last chapter.
“Red Rain” —Peter Gabriel
For when you need to cry but don’t have permission.
Put this on, close your eyes, and let it hit.
“Heroes” —David Bowie
Because for one day, even if it’s only one, you can be something more than wreckage.
That’s worth reaching for.
Now. Your turn. I want to hear what the wreckage sounds like on your end.
DeadStrings: I was going to make a full list, but everything I picked felt like a lie.
Too polished. Too loud. Too . . . unfitting. So, I’ve just had one track looping for the past hour.
“You Never Wash Up After Yourself” —Radiohead
A B-side. It’s one of those songs you don’t find unless you’re really looking.
There’s no full arrangement. Just acoustic, raw, and quietly furious. It sounds like someone breaking down in real time but trying not to make a scene.
The line hits you fast—“You never wash up after yourself.” It’s small. But you know it isn’t. It’s about being the one left with everything—mess, silence, memory—and pretending you’re fine with it.
But you’re not. And this time, you say so. Even if no one’s listening.
The fact that it’s a B-side makes it better, somehow.
It wasn’t meant to be heard, but it slipped through the cracks and ended up in the right hands by accident.
I don’t know. Tonight, I feel like a B-side too.
Unreleased. Not part of the plan. Quiet enough to ignore until you realize it’s been playing on a loop in the background.
You got one like that?
Something you don’t usually admit means something?
StringTheory27: That track hit harder than I expected.
I knew about it, but I’ve always skipped it. Not because it’s bad—because it felt like reading someone’s journal without permission.
But here’s the one I never put on a mixtape:
“Asleep” —The Smiths
Everyone always goes for “There Is a Light . . .” or “Please, Please, Please . . .” but this one’s different. This one is not trying to be clever, which is rare for them.
Morrissey asking to sing him to sleep cuts deep. That line used to make me uncomfortable. Still does, maybe?
Because it says the thing you’re never supposed to admit—that some nights, you don’t want to be better. You just want out. Or rest. Or silence that doesn’t feel like punishment.
I never play it around other people. Not even with headphones on the bus. It feels too private.
You’re the first person I’ve told.
Don’t make me regret it.
So, you blew up your life, don’t do it again by going with someone who’ll just use you.
It’s okay to be a B-track because, you know what?
You’re the best. You weren’t created for commercial use or capitalism, but out of art and a broken heart that needed—the one that bled and became something different.
You weren’t made for Top 40 or for record label approval.
You were born from the static between stations, from a broken heart trying to find its sound.
And that sound?
That sound is fucking unforgettable. It’s probably the best version of yourself.