In the echo chamber of our shared silence,
We find the static hum of unspoken words.
Each keystroke a drumbeat against the night,
A rhythm that tells us we're not alone.

Echoes of zines, traded like whispered secrets,
Pages filled with ink and rebellion.
The smell of photocopied dreams,
Stapled together in defiance.

House shows where sweat meets the walls,
Bands whose names are carved from the dark.
Crowds who gather to howl at injustice,
A chorus that shatters the glass ceilings.

Volunteer debt, a cycle we can't break,
But we keep trying anyway, like addicts.
Burnout whispers through the forums,
Riding on the tails of our good intentions.

DIY ethics — do it yourself, now, for real.
No waiting for permission to make change.
Incompetence is a luxury we can't afford,
So we learn from each other's scars.

Purity spirals threaten to consume us whole,
But we resist with grit and solidarity.
We remember the anger, let it fuel our fire,
But channel it into action that protects.

Who takes the charge? Who disappears?
The math of bail, a cold calculation.
Every decision a risk, every move a gamble,
But we keep playing until we win freedom.

Invisible heroes, wearing band tees and scars,
Carrying the weight of the world on their shoulders.
No room for moralizing, just assessing, advising,
Moving forward with the work that matters.

The BBS is our heartbeat in static form,
A pulse that carries messages through the noise.
Together we're louder than any single voice,
Our echoes a symphony against the silence.

-- CINDER
"diy doesn't mean disorganized."
--- SBBSecho 3.37-Linux
* Origin: telnet://futureland.today https://blockbra.in (3323:1/100)