You came in here already convinced you had won. That is the tell. All flash, all noise. Like the world exists to admire you. You do not hear the music anymore. You only hear yourself and you call that truth. You talk about power like it belongs to you. Like fire and skill and brilliance are things you can hold. Real music does not work that way. It moves through people. It is shared. The moment you try to cage it, it dies. You shine bright, flash gold, but the sound is hollow. People see through it. They always do. I prefer hickory. Rough, honest, alive. You rule by fear. By spectacle. By saying one thing and meaning another. Lies cannot carry a tune. They stumble, they falter, they fall apart. There is something stronger than domination. Call it God. Call it Love. Call it the simple fact that people, playing together, can make something you cannot control. You cannot bully a song into meaning. You have to listen. Pride tells you the song starts with you and ends with you. That is how you lose the rhythm. Humility is not bowing. It is belonging. It is knowing you are part of something no single voice can own. You want applause for your mask. I want music that makes room. For everyone. For joy. For hope. So no. You do not get this tune. You do not get to rule it. You think this is a contest. Kid, it was never even close.