In class, a student brought up the Lucy Connolly story from the UK. A story that struck many of us as surreal and troubling, centering around a brutal tragedy: seventeen-year-old boy who’d gone on a stabbing rampage, killing three six-year-old girls at a Taylor Swift-themed dance party. In the shock that followed, Lucy Connolly tweeted her fury, wishing death upon the murderer. She deleted it soon after. But the damage, the digital footprint, had already been public. She was charged with spreading hate and sentenced to two years in prison. For a tweet. About a child murderer. The room fell into a hush and heads shook. Murmurs of disbelief drifted through the class and someone said, “Batshit crazy,” and there were nods of agreement. In the land Orwell came from they’re doing their best to forget him.The conversation swerved, as it often does, toward music in this music class and Kanye West’s name surfaced, followed by mention of his swastika-laced merch line. What does it mean when artists provoke, offend, or blur irony beyond recognition? Where does expression end and ideology begin? One of the students who always has a non sequitur, asked, “Do you think that old phrase is true what goes on the road stays on the road?” I said, “Yes, I think people want to believe that. Not just musicians, but anyone living at the edge of ordinary. The road becomes its own key signature. Strange, unresolved. A place where different rules apply.” Silence again, like everyone had heard a chord they couldn’t name.