It's music that floats. Music that flows. Music that drifts randomly in haunting echoes. Music fills your ears with bewildering wonder, That conjures images of surreal dreamscapes converging on one another, With shrill falsettos sung in a smooth, but unrecognisable language, With lyrics that are unfathomable, But still make sense in a weird kinda way.
It's not music to be sung to in karaoke bars, Nor to be heard in the car, Via ad-infested Top 40 radio. It's music to be listened to in the dark, Piped in directly into yours ears, With both eyes closed and your mind wide open, With no other sounds to permeat its ethereal existence.
It's music that sends you on spiralling down, A freewriting, freewheeling mental freefall, That lands you in a land of surreal, kaleidoscopic dreamscapes, Which melt into one another like a colours on a forgotten dream. It's music that sets your mind in a state of weird surrealness, Which inspires you to just flow along mindlessly with it, In a stream of subconcious thoughts adrift on psychedelic waters,
It's music that inspires creative mindlessness, That gives birth to nonsensical poetry, That extol the virtues of pointless inspiration. Inspiring incoherant thoughts and words, Sentences of bombastic insensibility, That make sense despite not making sense.
It's Dream Rock. It's Poetic Rock, It's Untitled Rock, It's Sigur Rós. And it's all Hopelandic to me.