u/Able_Ground3524

Hey everyone!!!
I was curious what you guys think your top three metalcore albums of the year are (SO FAR)

MINE ARE:

1. Decades by Motionless In White

2. Season Of Surrender By August Burns Red

3. Yearning: The unbeautiful after by Boundaries

If yall had to make a “core” supergroup, so deathcore, hardcore, metalcore, etc. You can use ANY musicians in those genres, dead or alive to create a 5-6 member band.

THESE ARE THE ROLES

Lead vocals:

(OPTIONAL if you want like an I Prevail kinda thing) Back Up vocals:

Lead guitar:

Rhythm Guitar:

Bassist:

Drummer:

WHO YOU CHOOSING??

Also mine is down below

A drop of water falls to the ground. Or maybe it rises to the sky? I know it sounds insane but stay with me for one moment and let me explain. We view reality through the things we are taught, for example, water is fluid and fire is hot. But what if we were taught that fire is cold and that water is truly solid? Would our perception of the world change to fit what we’ve learned? How do we know the things we know? If our understanding of reality only exists through the things we are taught, then truth itself is a fragile thing. And if enough people collectively agree that something is true then truth is not discovered but instead is created. 

Last week I saw a man walk through a wall.

The strange thing was not that I saw it happen. The strange thing was that everyone around me acted as if it were perfectly normal. As if every Tuesday at three o’clock, a man casually walks through a brick wall in a subway station. 
For the rest of the week I tried to forget what I saw. I tried to tell myself that it was just the angle I saw it. Fatigue. Perhaps a momentary lapse in judgement. 
Yet seven days later I found myself standing in the same exact spot, staring at the same brick wall. I had been standing in that spot for nearly two hours, waiting for a man who might never appear. Then three o’clock came. And once again, the man walked straight through it, clothes and all, as if the wall was not even there. 
I quickly turned to the older woman that had been standing next to me for nearly 10 minutes waiting for her train. “Excuse me, but did you see that?” I asked her in a tone that may have been slightly too eager. 
“See what?” she asked, looking at me. 
“The man, He just went throu—”
“What wall?” the woman said.
I stood there in silence for several seconds contemplating whether I had finally lost it. But then my brain caught up with what had just happened. I had never mentioned the wall to her. In fact, I had barely finished speaking at all. I turned immediately toward the wall, expecting to find empty space where the bricks had been. Instead, the wall remained. Cold to the touch. Solid. Unmoving. 
I reached out for it, pressing the pads of my fingers against the rough surface of the concrete. 
Brick.  Real.
I turned back toward her but something felt off. The scent of vanilla had disappeared from the air and had been replaced with the scent of cheap after shave mixed with whiskey.
The woman was gone.
No, she wasn’t gone.
I stared at the spot she had been standing only a moment earlier. It was now occupied by a figure I did not recognize. In her spot stood a man. 
Tall? 
Maybe. 
Or maybe he wasn't.
I frowned. For the first time since this event began it no longer seemed like an overreaction to check myself into a mental institution. But the harder I looked at him, the less certain I became. His clothes were painfully ordinary and unspecial, the kind you'd walk past on the street without ever knowing. Nothing about this man demanded attention. 
Yet I found myself fixated on him and the idea of who he could possibly be. 
There was something familiar about him. Not his face, not the way his nose was crooked slightly to one side or the way that his hair looked greasy. Nothing physical, just a feeling, a change in the air. Almost like déjà vu, except I couldn’t remember for the life of me what I was supposed to be remembering.
I stared at him for an absurd amount of time, waiting for the slightest hint of movement. The rising and falling of his chest. A blink. Anything that would prove that he was real and not simply the machinations of a tired mind. 
For several moments we both stayed frozen as the rest of the station moved around us. The rhythm of footsteps echoed against the tile floor, a symphony of urgency. 
I wanted to say something. 
Anything. 
But before I could the man suddenly leaned down to tie his shoe. The action itself was so normal it caused me discomfort. Afterwards he stood back up and started to walk away. 
“Wait,” I said.
He stopped but did not turn around. 
Commuters stepped around him without looking, weaving through the space as though they already knew that he wasnt going to move. 
Stationary. 
A statue. 
“How did you do that?”, I asked.
He took one step forward.
“The floor.”
A pause.
“Not the wall.”
But it wasn't what he said that struck me. It was the voice that he used. I'd heard it somewhere before.
On the radio? No. 
On television? No.
Somewhere closer.