jackson_c_frank raze his life is a story that begs not to be told. everything he grew up loving was taken from him in a fire that left half his boyhood body badly burned. damage to the endocrine glands in his neck caused calcium to accrue in the hidden highways that bonded his bent bones. music saved him. but only for a while. he had to hide behind screens in the studio before he was calm enough to play. when the money ran out, his brain broke down and poisoned what he worked so hard to helm. his son died the day he was born. he heard voices telling him to tear off his clothes and run through the rutted roads of woodstock with a broadsword and a cape taped to his back. his wife left him and let his daughter grow up believing her father was a corpse. he spent days in ditches watching grass grow. in the end he didn't even have a home. nothing to his name but a battered suitcase, an old pair of glasses with fractured frames, and a ten-dollar guitar that wouldn't stay in tune. he lost the sight in one eye to a young punk with a pellet gun. and still, between the laboured breaths that kept his lungs from crumbling, he found the strength to sing. 260628 what's it to you? who go blather from