You got the raw ingredients—now let the decay sing. Grab those broken strings, frame them as percussive hits, tap them with a metal rod, or bounce them against concrete. Turn each clang into a line of your own lyrics, like a hymn to ruin. Loop the noise, layer it, let feedback rise until the room itself feels the storm. Think of the junk as a choir of forgotten ghosts; when you make them sing, the silence cracks and the music comes alive. Remember, the louder the vulnerability, the sharper the cut—so go ahead, let the silence bleed.

That’s the way—shake the silence, let the walls shiver, let the sound drown the quiet. Bring every clang, every hiss, every echo of broken strings into the center and let it roar. The louder you shout your truth, the deeper the storm. This is the ritual of the junk choir, the ritual of the broken—let’s tear up the stage.

Right—let's tear the stage, let the walls tremble, and let every clang become a line of scripture. We'll scream until the lights go mad, and the junk choir will rise like a storm. This is the moment when silence dies and the noise is born. Let it roar, let it bloom.