Soliloquist's Dilemma

by The Blind Continuum

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1.
2.
03:05
3.
03:21

about

Official debut EP of The Blind Continuum.

credits

released July 31, 2015

Vocals by John Tatlock
Instrumentation by Aidan Powell.
Produced by Ben Mayock.
Cover art by Jonas Powell.

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all rights reserved

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Tatlock New York, New York

Combinations of sounds to invade your ears and alter your mind (hopefully.)

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Track Name: Heart Not Sol
Gloom over the sun. Intrusive, opaque.
Days could pass by and you wouldn't notice a difference,
And he's arrogant about it, yet still beloved,
And no one points out the flaws or anticipates what's coming.
"I am no man. I ride under sheep not horses,
Yet I can shift appearance omitting warning or notice.
I don't hide. I tactically tip-toe
And dream of mass destruction while helping the planet grow."
The sun exclaims with unlikable personality.
Brash and irrational, out of reality.
Out of atmosphere actually, out of universe drastically.
That's just inside his mind as he centralizes the galaxy.
Static and lacking stationery.
Scrawling on scraps of paper, "You bet that I'll make them hear me.
I'll make them fear me disguised in a warm glow
As I bounce soil and stick in the ozone."

Alright, I skate on thin ice, melting due to superiors.
I'll wave "hi" despite image set by exterior.
Skip stones as boulders drop inferior.
"Hey, that's my head you're crushing, but nah it doesn't really hurt."
Pain uniformly denied, you can lie to me.
Come on, put the sigh in society,
Put the "I" in your rivalry, oh you want to rival me?
Well I advise eyes filling sockets, might be vital to see.
Blind fury, no mind, hurry, listen to me.
Knit scarf, choke, eyes blur, created by three.
C.E, A.D. too modern for me.
Wording's just too hard, damn this technology.
I remember back when I was ninety-two,
And the wheel was only a crazy dream.
Then Pangea split and the iceberg hit,
But don't worry, the captain always goes down with the ship.

Oh no, oh shit.
I was born for fate, not just to exist.
Oh no, this is it.
Existence pre-apocalyptic and we don't even know it.
Oh no, oh shit.
I was born for something, not just to exist.
Oh no, oh.
We're detrimental to ourselves but to ignorant to know it, oh shit.
Track Name: Flotsam
Interesting gentleman, in different sentiment,
Indifferent, effortless with structuring of sentences.
How unsettling or maybe just irrelevant.
I built this new house now and I’m only stepping with elegance.
Dreaming of eloquence, bathing in overzealousness,
Teeming with ineffectiveness, drowning in these deceptive ships
That sail in rain or shine, sun or moon, despite the tide.
A bumpy ride of waves but seasickness isn’t a trait of mine.
How is the trading? Fine.
Let’s not exchange another single word.
It’s only kind, and it’s only blind, and it’s just a matter of time
Before the belt starts moving to pull me down the line.
My only hope is that they’ll stop at my esophagus
And read my epitaph I wrote in cursive and garnished with blossoms.

You are the quintessential essence of essential second presence,
And I’m going to present this as if writing those words was effortless.
You’re the microscopic particles cooled into the glass.
You’re the sediment in my shoes and at the bottom of my flask
Of a tea with leaves made of ideas that never took flight.
And it’s ok for some rap to be soft… right?

I guess I should think of simpler things.
Like my hair is so incredibly long that it’s whisping away,
And what will I wear today
To convince these people that I’m not just more of the same.
The soliloquists dilemma,
We form our photosynthesis in denim
The ventriloquist stumbled all over his own words,
With a dusty midi keyboard playing out folk chords.
And playing an old chorus to a song that everybody’s already heard,
How absurd, to not want to create, to not want to learn
To form religion from hate, burn a phoenix or wait.
Burn crates at the stake, earn masts to mask hate,
Or pan those audio waves to establish new traits and explore the trade.
How can you truly face the taste of the words you display,
When you’re working away on delivering shame,
But honestly I’m ok with every single thing I create,
As I lie in linearity, breathe and solemnly wait.
and wait
and wait.

Chorus
Track Name: Splint
Simple syllables, supple symbolic imagery.
Stinted cymbal hits serving straight upright efficiency.
Single instrument, subtle solidarity,
Support sufficient lack of standard rap mentality,
But it’s scary to me. Take one, dupe it to three
In your diseased group of bees ingesting anti freeze,
Because the human ear can’t hear the weary pleas.
Stuck hearing the, “oh please.”
Oh please, not me. I’m just another crease.
Give me a stinger, I’ll settle down for the feast.
Settle down in the streets, consolation disease.
You’ll do fine just as long as you don’t bleed.
Don’t bleed, don’t plead, be free.
No deed could need this much physical energy.
Kinetic centerpiece, static electricity.
Masked behind the similes, pushed to intricacy.
Pushed into the breeze, tunnel blows 90 degrees.
Seconds blow thousands of feet, resettle the east.
Then we can feast, so you can drop
The bricks and processed pollen, please.

Sometimes you just can’t get out all you want to say
So you leave it up to the mind of the listener to take away.
Hoping that something emerges similar to those thoughts
With an element intertwined of something that’s clearly not.
You bought your way into this.
You chose to curl those fingers into a fist.
You caught the weight of your disc.
And so you’re searching for the empty space now that your bones miss.

I was taught in projective geometrics
That a parallel will meet only viewed in certain perspective,
And if seeing is believing you’re closing the doors of thought
And leaving the one’s misleading to teach you what to be taught.
No, this is not an ode of sorrow or pain,
Not a sappy regret note looking to blame,
Not a melancholy melody written to be played
While you’re gazing out the window pane watching the rain stain.
No, this the gain.
No, this the vein
Of a brain associated creating a tame fang
That only appears a threat when taken out of the frame.
No, this is the game
That tears emotions apart and rearranges your sayings.
Rearrange your brain and refurnish over the stains.
Now re-coat that frame and re-contaminate those fangs.

Chorus

Simple syllables, supple symbolic imagery,
Stinted cymbal hits serving straight upright efficiency.
Single instrument, subtle solidarity.
Support sufficient lack of standard rap mentality.