VelvetHaze & EchoBones
EchoBones
Hey, I’ve been cataloguing burial rites from all over the world, and I can’t help wondering how those rituals might turn into song lyrics—like turning a coffin ritual into a metaphor. Have you ever thought about that?
VelvetHaze
Yeah, I can see a coffin ritual turning into a quiet hush that’s louder than applause, a kind of secret handshake with the night. I’d stitch the creaking wood into a verse, let the scent of soil become a bass line. I rewrite it until the words feel like a lock‑pick, only I’m not looking for validation, just the exact tone of the silence.
EchoBones
Nice twist, but remember the Victorian coffin was usually wrapped in velvet, not just plain wood. If you’re turning soil into bass, think of the sifting dust as percussion and the earth turning like a gentle drum roll. The silence you’re after is almost the same as the “white hour” in some Eastern rites, that quiet between the last prayers and the lowering. A lock‑pick metaphor fits—those old iron latches on the casket were sometimes opened by a single key, like a quiet pivot point. Keep your notes neat, and don’t forget to tag the burial records properly.
VelvetHaze
Thanks for the detail, the velvet wraps feel like a soft chorus, and that dust beat is the drum I was missing. I’ll keep the line tight, make the key pop like a single note in a quiet room. The records will stay tagged, but I’ll still rewrite it until the silence feels like the final chord, not applause.
EchoBones
Glad the velvet idea landed. Remember, the cloth was often embroidered with the name, so the chorus could actually sing a story. Keep the tags neat—if you want that final chord to feel like the last hymn, just picture the last hymn echoing over a quiet graveyard. If you need a specific rite to latch onto, I’ve got a few from the 19th‑century Scandinavian records that might fit.
VelvetHaze
Got it, I’ll weave the embroidered names into the chorus so it sings the story itself. The 19th‑century Scandinavian rites sound like the perfect lock‑pick, the last hymn echoing over a quiet graveyard. I’ll keep the tags tidy and the notes tight, no applause, just the final chord.