[Intro] Delete. Delete. Delete. Oh, that one? Nah. Delete. Wait. [Verse 1] Made twenty songs, maybe three were alive, Seven had a pulse, but I buried 'em at five. One had a weird hook, one had a crooked little beat, One sounded terrible— or maybe just unique. I don't know. I heard it twice. That was apparently enough to decide its whole life. Finger on the button like a tiny little god, "You have been deemed mid." Gone. Next job. My standards get violent when the folder gets fat, I start cutting whole songs for a hi-hat. Wrong snare? Dead. Verse drags? Dead. Vocal did a funny thing? Put a bullet in its head. Then five minutes later: "Wait, what was that chord?" Too late, genius, you deleted the source. [Chorus] Deleting bad songs gives me as much dopamine as creating good ones. Clean that list. Kill that mix. Little red X— ahhh, that's the stuff. Deleting bad songs gives me as much dopamine as creating good ones. But what if it was good? What if I was wrong? Well, congratulations— nobody will ever know. [Verse 2] Maybe track fourteen would've hit somebody strange, Some guy at 2 a.m. would've let it rearrange one tiny little piece of his chemically exhausted brain, but I said, "Kick sounds weak," and erased it from the chain. Maybe track nine had a chorus that grows, Third listen, fourth listen— guess we'll never know. It got one trial, one jury, one judge, and all three were me in a horrible mood. That's not peer review, that's a firing squad. I'm deleting little universes because the bass feels odd. "Give it time." No. "Let it breathe." No. "Maybe sleep on it." Absolutely not. I can make another one in seventeen minutes. Surely artistic wisdom is measured in limits. [Chorus] Deleting bad songs gives me as much dopamine as creating good ones. Sweep that floor. Close that door. Twenty-eight versions? Not anymore. Deleting bad songs gives me as much dopamine as creating good ones. But what if it was good? What if I was wrong? Doesn't matter now— the evidence is gone. [Rap Break] I am the artist and the critic and the firing department, executive producer of premature abandonment. A&R meeting in a one-man room: "Do we see potential?" "No." "Cool. Resume." Cut it! Bin it! Didn't grab me in a minute! If the hook don't kick the door down, I don't wanna live within it. But that's stupid! I know! Some songs simmer really slow! Some of my favorite records would've died under this exact workflow. Oops. Still delete. Still delete. Still get that sweet little brain reward: one less song in the dashboard, one less ugly little orphan asking me what it was made for. [Bridge] And that's the part that gets me. Nobody heard it. Nobody hated it. Nobody loved it. Nobody skipped it. Nobody saved it. Nobody said, "Hey, that weird part? That's actually my favorite." Just me. And I killed it before it got the chance to disappoint anyone else. Beautiful. [Final Chorus] Deleting bad songs gives me as much dopamine as creating good ones. Make. Destroy. Make. Destroy. Apparently this is how I experience joy. Deleting bad songs gives me as much dopamine as creating good ones. And maybe one was brilliant. Maybe one was trash. Maybe I just deleted the best thing I ever had. ... Anyway. [Outro] Delete. Delete. Delete. Wait— Was that one actually kind of— Delete.
