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Band Metal Funk


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The best kept secret in music


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-~ inkTrap ~-
. . . . . An impending debut release grows closer than seems real to me; it almost feels unintentional. Despite having been there the whole time, making it, that it got made almost surprises me. I guess I've been having such a blast, I forgot I was producing something, or working towards anything. "Work" is the last thing I would call what I do when I pick up a guitar.

Music is my life.


Feeling a bit camera shy


Perhaps inkTrap is not described so well by the word "band" as it is by the mental image of a newly-hatched larval worm, wingless and wiggling nervously.

Hello and welcome, unknown consciousness. You may call me Sam, as some documents would indicate that to be my name. I sometimes mark them this way myself, if prompted, though I am not convinced. Most often, documents pre-marked "Sam" flock to me by themselves, in a peculiar fashion, and at an alarming rate. My name? Is it? For an utterly simple thing I am at a loss of words. Am I the name I never chose and rarely see in my own handwriting? Many strange hands are more sure of me than I of this, and with confidence they address letters to three letters arranged always the same. Sam, never Mas, Sma, Msa, Ams, or Asm. Many strange hands are convinced of this Sam, who I am's these three letters combined make this man. Can't say I am what I'm not on my own, any words that if by myself would go unheard. Can't say I am everyone's mouth but my own. Yet also can't say I'm not someone's clone. Human. Naked as stone. Obscene. Deeply unknown. To whom I've been what crosses minds in crowds meeting eyes; to whom I've been that other guy's cheap cologne. Whom I've thrown off of what. Who I am, what I'm not. What I am if not Sam.

Many strange hands must know something I don't.

Mental loops cyclone redundant, leaving me with no choice: to you I am whoever I am to you, may that be Sam. May it not. You are of course welcome, if not encouraged to call me a number of things that are not Sam, all of which are acceptable. Potentially confusing, even. That'd be neat.

Since this box seems to be intended for somehow biographical purposes, I will now relate various informational facts descriptive of my human identity. I am twenty-one. I have been playing the guitar and dabbling in music for just over two years. I have no idea what I'm doing, really. It's great. Contrary to popular belief, incompetence actually makes you stronger, kind of like wrestling a feral grizzly, or getting shot. I can't think of a way to transition from that topic to the fact that I am typing into a box, so consider this a fun surprise: I am typing into a box. Words are appearing there. This is not the first box I have transformed in such a way. I type into boxes like this one very often, even daily. The typing is done in english. It sometimes goes on to be read by other human beings. I am a mammal. Though squirrels are also mammals, I am not similar to a squirrel. These are all engaging facts about me. I may seem a bit odd to you. Alternatively, I may not. Currently my left foot is not wearing a sock. On my right foot, there similarly are no socks to be found. There are socks in my bedroom, however. I'm presenting myself in a way that carefully elaborates on the most important, need-to-know facets of my whatever. I have not yet mentioned oranges, though doing so would be irrelevant. It's possible that I like ketchup, but actually I don't. I can be described using adjectives. "Lubricous" is an adjective. I can not be described with the word "lubricous." I am not lubricative. I do not lubricate. I cannot be used as a lubricant. I hope I've been efficiently educative with my time here in this box. Educative enough that you feel as confused as I do about all of this.