Muzak. It's everywhere. Venture through any shopping centre or arcade and it's inescapable. The soulless squawking of some has-been female vocalist. The inane, banal lyricism of some tired, but highly paid record producer, brimming with false emotion and writing under the guise of a once-famous (or perhaps never famous?) solo artist.

Trite chord progressions in the plastinated style of yesteryear. Almost remind the shoppers of their childhood and adolescence. At some near-conscious level they hear, and something tells them that they like what they hear. The reminiscent sounds of once-tastes triggers an impulse: be pleased, and consume.

Engineered to be as inoffensive as possible, and thus devoid of anything even remotely real, it actually succeeds in offending some people in one of the most profound ways possible.

Women are genetically wired to respond to a baby's cry. I've been told that for many women it is completely impossible for them to block out the wailing of a child.

I, and others like myself, are wired in a similiar way. However, our resonance is with music. I am completely unable to block out any music, be it good or bad. At times I am thankful for this, but more often I feel cursed. This filth, this trite, soulless, inane muzak affects me in a most detrimental way. My mind is jarred by its complete incongruity of spirit, of life. I yearn for escape, for shelter from this terrible cacophony. I contemplate death and it seems a reasonable alternative.

Oh god, make it stop.