Distribution Automatique

Saturday, August 30

"The thing he was about to do was open a diary. This was not illegal (nothing was illegal, sincere there were no longer any laws), but if detected it was reasonably certain that it would be punished by death, or at least by twenty-five years in a forced labor camp.,,In small clumsy letters he wrote:

April 4th, 1984.

He sat back. A sense of complete helplessness had descended upon him. To begin with, he did not know with any certainty that this *was* 1984. It must be round that date, since he was fairly sure that his age was thirty-nine, and he believed that he had been born in 1944 or 1945; but it was never possible nowadays to pin down any date within a year or two.

For whom, it suddenly occurred to him to wonder, was he writing this diary? For the future, for the unborn. His mind hovered for a moment round the doubtful date on the page, and then fetched up with a bump against the Newspeak word *doublethink.* For the first time the magnitude of what he had undertaken came home to him. How could you communicate with the future? It was of its nature impossible. Either the future would resemble the present, in which case it would not listen to him, or it would be different from it, and his predicament would be meaningless.

For some time he sat gazing stupidly at the paper. The telescreen had changed over to strident military music. It was curious that he seemed not merely to have lost the power of expressing himself, but even to have fogotten what it was that he had originally intended to stay....The seconds were ticking by. He was conscious of nothing except the blankness of the page in front of him, the itching of the skin above his ankle, the blaring of the music, and a slight boozness of the gin.

Suddenly he began writing in sheer panic, only imperfectly aware of what he was setting down...

*April 4th, 1984. Last night at the fllicks. All war films. One very good one of a ship full of refugees being bombed somewhere in the Mediterranean. Audience much amused by shots of a huge fat man trying to swim away with a helicopter after him, first you saw him wallowing along in the water like a porpoise, then you saw him through the helicopter gunsights, then he was full of holes and the sea around him turned pink and he sank as suddenly as though the holes had let in the water, audience shouting with laughter when he sank, then you saw a lifeboat full of children with a helicopter hovering over it...then the helicopter planted a 20 kilo bomb among in them terrific flash and the boat went all to watchwood. then there was a wonderful shot of a child's arm going up up up right up into the air a helicopter with a camera in its nose must have followed it up and there a lot of applause from the party seats..."

George Orwell, *1984* (Harcourt, Brace and Company, 1949)

"We looked at each other in the same way then
But I can't remember where or when...
Some things that happen for the first time
Seem to be happening again.."

Kasey S. Mohammed has written a fiery epitaph/manifesto/anti-manifesto for The New Brutalism-see "North To Nothingness" (8/30/03)

The New Brutalism is dead! Long live The New Brutalism!

Friday, August 29

Friday,August 29, 2003

today, from The Brutal Kittens...James Meetze

It's looking as if Tougher Disguises will be invading New York on November 6th to host a reading in the Boog City series for non-New York presses.

Line-up so far:

Noah Eli Gordon
Cynthia Sailers
James Meetze
Today, in a statement on the SUNY/Buff poetics list, K. Silem Mohammed puts his recent BBC interview on Flarf in perspective. He is at pains to tell us the interview was brief, that he read a few lines of a poem, only to go on to explain to the interviewer that Flarf consists of intentionally bad poetry, throwing the interviewer onto a (stock) "flabbergasted" question: But Is It Art?. (Kasey said yes).In a funny aside, Kasey reveals that the most charming thing about the interview was the interviewer's pronunciation of the word "Flarf" (appparently in a brogue). I loved this statement of Kasey's because of what it says, first, about his legendary kindness (he introduces his discussion of the interview wth the phrase "lest anyone build it up too much"), and second, related, what it might imply about the meaning of that so-hard-to-pin down term , the "New Brutalism" (perhaps the only possible way [highly ironicized] of putting out a subliminal call for caring and kindness while still retaining some modicum of imperative brattiness?)

So, get to know some New Brutalists, and the work, and see for yourself...
"If we knew each others secrets, what comforts we should find!"
Churton Collins, aphorisms in an English review, 1914
"We all come down to dinner. But each has a room to himself."
Walter Bagehot

Concerto for specific idea and
series of background thoughts.


1/25/94 (12:05 a.m.)

Is it lack of love or lack of feeling
or pure exhaustion
that leaves me reeling?


How we press our hands and
faces against the glass divide
that separates us from this world.
With laughter, with sorrow, with
unending faith and learning, with acts
of unimaginable devotion or cruelty
we work to wring some kind of
reaction out of an essentially
unresponsive universe. Well,
perhaps this is unfair- the
universe can be very responsive-
for very brief periods of time,
but soon enough it will return
to its routine business of creation
and destruction, not significantly
influenced by my tiny contribution
one way or another, again, for
very long. So this longing to be
so much a part of things, to
join with others passionately in
a spirited exchange, eventually gives
way to the cycle of recognizing
each of our individual alonenesses.
True, we celebrated our common
victories and mourned together
our common sufferings. Still we had to
struggle, sometimes repeatedly, to remain
focussed on our common interests
and challenges.


It was hard because
no sooner have we declared
our sincerity in our
determination to participate
and be finally elected to the
select circle of those who have
won renown, either permanent or
evanescent, we realized,
like Aurelius, that it is all
evenescent. After
a quiet moment of serious
reflection we usually laugh. That
is, if we're lucky.


How good it is to stop sometimes,
especially when you can remember
that soon it will be followed by
another beginning.


Then it is endings we decry! In
every one of our sadnesses, we
are rehearsing the keenest one,
reliving all of them.


Things are neither as far, nor as
close, as we think they are.
'What a fine comedy this world would
be if one did not play a part in it."
Diderot, Letters to Sophie Vollard

"The bounded is loathed by its
possessor. The same dull round, even
of a universe, would soon become a
mill with complicated wheels."

Blake- 'There is no natural religion', 1788

"Everything which I have created as a poet
has had its origin in a frame of mnd and
a situation in life; I never wrote because I
had, as they say, found a good subject."
Henrik Ibsen


Robert Motherwell:

"The problem of the artist is to wait
until reality speaks to him. [...] To
do nothing until a work, an image,
a clear structure begins to unfold
its meaning."

Odilon Redon, 1898
his works "*inspire* and are not
meant to be defined. They determine
nothing. They place us, as does music,
in the ambiguous realm of the
undetermined. They are a kind of

Still the idea intrigues me of writing
a work in which I can discuss ideas
and still obtain the forward momentum
and charm of immediacy in a
piece of poetry or fiction- this
"H.C." and "T.C," idea is not yet
it- but when I wrote it I had an
image of a "work inside a work"
which would capture the feeling of
what I am imagining about this-
like *Explications.*

"Part of the surprise of modern art is
to strip away from painting the
costumes, the masquerades, the status
symbols of church and state and
poltics-hence, its so-called
abstraction, which is actually a
humanly felt universalism.


"To be a master of a language is
to be a master of emphasis. What is
emhasized is at once the form and
the content."


Poetry-99% silence and 1% whispering.

I imagine a poetry tha would make
most of what has been written unitl now
sound like screaming, or at least shouting

Thursday, August 28

Thanks to Mikarrhea...Michaela Cooper for mentioning -fait accompli- and welcome to Blogland! It appears she has the requisite sense of humor to survive in this strange new world.

Here are a few more of my favorite aphorisms:

"There is hardly any grief that an
hour's reading will not dissipate."
Montesquieu, -Mes Pensees- 1722-55

"To be happy, we must not be too concerned with others."
Albert Camus, -The Fall-, 1956

"There is a certain distance at which
each person we know is naturally
placed from us. It varies with each,
and we must not attempt to alter
it. We may clasp him who is close,
and we are not to pull closer to him who
is more remote."
Mark Rutherford, -More Pages from a Journal-, 1910

"What a fine comedy this world would
be if one did not play a part in it."
Diderot, -Letters to Sophie Vollard-

"if only we could treat ourselves
as we treat other men, looking at their
withdrawn faces and crediting them with
some mysterious, irresistable power. Instead,
we know all our own thoughts, our misgivings,
and we are reduced to hoping for some
unconscious force to surge up from our
inmost being and act with a subtlety all its own."
Cesare Pavese-This Business of Living: Diaries-1935-1950
8/1/99 Amsterdam

Homo Sapiens Non Urinat In Ventum


foresight foretaste forethought forewarning
preconception premonition prescience



Almost immediately, "The
Music Lesson" transposed itself
from a narrative into a series
of brief episodes in the
form of a series of aphorisms.
The first of which is: don't
expect the student to be in
any hurry for the lesson.
Perhaps if he or she rushed to
it we might expect them to be
too eager, too accomodating.
The teacher wants good students, not
necessarily compliant ones.


What makes change so
difficult? I've a mind to
smooth out some rough edges,
but there is always this
resistance. My behavior- or
the connection between how I
take action and how I am
feeling, it's this equation I
would like to adjust. Part of
this, I see is related to the
unpredictability of the external
conditions at any given moment.
I overreact, or rigidly react
to these external conditions as
if they were human, that is,
purposeful. This is, of course, the
theme of "Zen In The Art of
Motorcycle Maintenance" as I
remember. I ought to rereread
this book.

As I understand, and develop, what
I enjoy reading, I better understand
what I want to write. I remember
Fielding once suggesting that
the difficulty I have is not so
much with how I react to people
but how I respond to how
they respond to me. So
this is where neutrality
to outcomes comes in.
The automatic reaction
to disappointment, for
example, is to feel
frustrated. My reaction frequently
contains the need to reveal,
and often even to
sustain this frustration.
Maybe part of this urge is
to examine the feelings- and,
if it's a wound, to sort
of pick at the scab, or
press the bruise. But another
side of this is to take
offence- to be displeased and
to express the displeasure.

Getting better is feeling
better, feeling better is having
more, having more is having
more to give.

Wincing- why so much?
Asking for something, asking for
support; "something hurt me- help me."

Memories imply a break
with what took place in
the past. But there was no
break. Day after day, every day
since the first you have been
who you are. To remember you
need only look at what you
are doing at any given moment.
Probably you were doing something
very similar to what you are
doing right now back then.
Maybe a few details have changed,
something you used to do into
a different version of what you
were doing back then.

Misunderstandings can only
come from unmet needs.

Each understanding is like a
rung on the ladder. Yet
every day you have to find
the impetus to climb the
ladder again. First the
ladder- and then the
climbing. Then seeing
something-then more ladders,
more climbing.

So- how to manage this
annoyance- disappointment
thing better. This is what I was
studying with stoicism and
Seneca. These annoyance-
disappointment spells have
actually wasted an awful lot
of time in my life.


I just understood that sometimes
I interpret some unfortunate
experience as if it were a reflection of my
destiny and therefore- somehow- as
a reflection on my self-worth or value.
An example. this year, in the
school I work in there was a
considerable amount of construction
work. This bothered my hearing because
of a hearing condition I have
called tinnitus. Once I speculated
that a very loud construction
project which took place
right next to another school
I worked in over 10 years ago
caused my problem. When they drove
in the foundation it sounded like
explosions. A year later
the ear noises started. So
these misfortunes get grouped
under bad luck surrounding
construction nearby me. Then,
when there is a much quieter
construction project right
acorss from me in Amsterdam,
it all gets clustered
under "bad luck I get
around construction projects."
And somehow this bad luck
is deserved. The fact
that it feels deserved depresses
me. But, in actuality, the
amount of focus I give
something is chosen by me,
not the external environment.
This is Seneca's message.
Yesterday I tried to push through
this. I am very interested in
mastering this and it seems like
an extremely valuable project.


I realized, listening to
Debussy the last few days-
but it also applies to the
Beethoven I've been listening
to: to create according to
very basic kinds of
steps, and gradually to allow
the feelings to overtake me,
and then watch what happens
next. This often involves
considerable waiting. All through
the years I've noticed there are
times I do not write. Many
years ago I might have
gotten upset about these
periods. At times I
can even shed the mantle
of "writer." Why wear
this interest so loudly like a
uniform? It is more interesting
to change identities sometimes,
like costumes. We all do
this naturally, to some
extent, in everyday life.
At a job or professional
activity we have to don this
mantle or we
will not be able to accomplish
very much. Often this
question is one of setting limits
with other people. If we
fail to set these limits,
we will be unable to
manage our activities vis-a
vis other people.

Even the Beethoven- simple steps,
one progressing naturally from
the previous one and the next one.
But, compared with Debussy,
Beethoven is very forceably
moving forward with each step
and sequence of steps. These
middle quartets glide easily
between moods- but there
are rarely the "complete
silences" I hear in Debussy.

The more smoothly one can
change the masks, the quicker
can things move forward. The
times of waiting are clothes-
changing periods. Or sometimes,
with me, it is a stubborn
refusal to don any mask at

In a mirage, I can
don any costume at will.
It may seem so, but I
am not dressing hurriedly.
No, because I am thinking
about what I want to wear.

I knew where my hatred of
uniforms comes from. It
comes from my father.
Since he was a soldier,
an officer, he wore a
uniform every day. I
think he loved them so
much, that when he retired
the only activity he could
enjoy was managing the
uniforms for students
in an army training
program [ROTC, at City College of New York,
in the early 60's].

What is the impatience ever
about? It is about equating
procedures with rigid uniforms,
unconsciously. But certainly
because I've dwelled so long
in a horror of uniforms, that
I can certainly detect the
rigid aspects of "uniform"
behavior- particularly of
importance to me in writing,
but I also detect it frequently
in other areas of being.

Wednesday, August 27



Not sure if or when I fell asleep, I
began to dream
In a classroom, a different kind of
classroom: what did I come here to learn?
People friendly, I reach out
Is there certainty? For fear?
Unrevealed-and people show themselves,
can't help it
Better be exact- take measure
In between time- to get started
Then someone starts crying
I hold hands-wringing hands-hiding them
Unfortunate-make jokes-they can't
explain or understand
I insist on the possibility of racial harmony
Very slow nodding of heads-shaking of heads
I start to run but something holds my feet
Color-bombed out buildings- furniture in a vacant lot
Stripes-laughter-throw down partially smoked cigarettes
They scramble for them- to smoke
To be continued-
On the telephone-
Can't you remember?
Slowly shaking my head
Don't try to tell me
Unfortunate victims


Boundary line between sleeping and waking state
And I try to explain it
come back to get hurt
Loud noises again- I can't sleep!
Listen to me
Clouds passing-months passing
Try to remember
Don't have to be exact
Or abrupt or so awake
Now think it over
Can't remember
Went out-took something-looking-
sunny-nobody there
In between
Pretend you're there-close your eyes-now look
Blue-white and blue-what do you see
Nothing-I see darkness-maybe nothing
Wait-stairs-or a street
Just something- I feel it- what
Love that there is just something invisible
Or not invisible
Uncovered and not moving
Held and not shaking
Once you talk the darkness disappears
Maybe it would be too embarassing
To specify
Artificially imposed waiting
At the side of
In the valley of
You could be just drying your hands
Or changing your clothes
And something occurs to you
At the moment the most alive
You have been in years- maybe ever
And that long discussion where the words
poured over you
Like water and a smile that lasts


I was trying to say something, to connect
Listened to but something interfered
In between a dancing play of lights
Pretend you're awake in order to move
Pretend you're speaking out loud when this is only thought
Coming and going through the mind like waves
Washing the shore and then disappearing
Too soft or too loud
Couldn't hear it quite as it was fading
Watching instead the trees slightly moving
Again reading-
Later eating together and watching t.v.-
Dozing off-
Asleep again
But don't break the chain
Don't mind it if you enter
But please don't raise your voice-
The voice- is what listens
Not the- sun or moon-
And-listening to music
Slowly take off your clothes-
Soft and holding darkness
Short and long-
This is not out loud
Wordless thinking with words
Disappearing without a trace


To speak out loud is not to be heard
Daylight world of empty sound
Coming close but of no part
Seeming, leaving
Too much to be anything
Scratching, biting but not tasting
Clear but meaningless
Remembered but not comprehended
Positioned but not situated
Exact-without a home
Unlearned yet rehearsed forever
Nightmare without release
Solitude without embrace
Command lacking nuance
Full but uncontained
Nearby but unreachable

Let the said remain unspken
An unheard sound as soft as skin
Surrounds the mind with kindness and water

Tuesday, August 26

"...to listen attentively, and to answer precisely,
is the greatest perfection of conversation."

Duc Francois de la Rochefoucould
"A gossip is one who talks to you about
others; a bore is one who talks to you
about himself; and a brilliant conversationalist
is one who talks to you about yourself."

Liza Kirk
"Since most crimes are committed in
a state of somnambulism, one might
say that the function of the moral
sense consists in wakening the dreadful
dreamer in the nick of time."

Valery, *Tel Quel*
"Ah! Those strange people who have
the courage to be unhappy! *Are* they
unhappy, by the way?"

Alice James, Diary, 1889
"In everything there is an unexplored
element because we are prone by habit
to use our eyes only in combination
with the memory of what others before us
have thought about the thing we are looking at.
The most insignificant thing contains some
little unknown element. We must find it."

Maupassant, Preface to Pierre et Jean, 1887

"Spoke, spoke.
Was, was."
Paul Celan

The real is impenetrable.
Every day we accept the given reports.
Sun, gray skies, rain.
In back of the house the metal swing is rusting.
The day is so hot nothing moves.
Even time doesn't move.
Escape the official remarks and expressions.
Into what? Green? Or eyes?
Words don't welcome, but they are warm,
Warmer than voices. The whole extent.
The whole object or memory.
Contrivance: echoes.
Universe: all bare.
Wonders: caring.

Thanks, Jordan, so kind of you to welcome me back, and to mention today's posting on -fait accompli-. By the way, the "notes" below from 1994 were notes to imaginary poems. I wrote another piece like this called "Explications."

Hopefully, I will be seeing you soon, Jordan.

Notes to the Poems


1. The idea of choosing at first
seems of paramount importance, but
soon we see a subtle kind of fatalism
emerging. This is hidden at first by
irony and later by intentional
clowning. Someone or something is
being ridiculed in this wild concatenation
of dates and times.

2. Phrases like "thirsty fortune"
and "fallen fables" have an
ambiguous pallor. They are meant
to confuse the initial direction
of the poem.

3. "A cloudy day." The poet's
memories of a cloudy day suggest
an unmentionable or perhaps a
partially forgotten loss.

4."Garlands." The poet has
occasion to refer to a particular
frieze observed during
a visit to Naples on a holiday.

5. "Satisfactions in loving."
A mood of calm and transcendent
satisfaction adds an enigmatic tone
to this elegaic fragment.

6. "November." Winter suggests final
sequences in most cases, but here perhaps
we may infer a more mystical allusion.
Things have come apart, yes, but what
is suggested is that meaning can be
inferred by the way the parts imply a
puzzle in the manner that their reconstruction
has already been suggested. In fact,
reconstruction may have already
taken place if we examine the "fault
lines." Why this particular month, for
example and not "December" or "January."
First, is it a beginning also, in the fact
that winter has just begun?

7. Again and again the poet
is obssessed with fragments. A
majestic beauty is found in these
"poor pathetic pieces" which have
arranged themselves mysteriously on
"times narrow strip of sand."
"Things, places, meanings,
hopes, sorrows, joys" are dropped,
picked up again and rearranged by
experience and are forgotten and
remembered again with each interpretation
and reinterpretation. Something is
rediscovered but we are never
quite certain what it is because
just as we recognize its shape on
"time's horizon" again it disappears
"in a cycle of sunsets and days."

8. "Questions." With this rapturous
outburst on the subject of questions
is the poet casting doubt on the
possibility of certainty or the
certainty of possibility? We cannot
be sure if what is being said is
meant to b e serious or if the
poet is secretly ridiculing the
subject under scrutiny. This can
be partly determined by a repeated
reference to "hope." It is difficult
to imagine sarcasm where hope is being

9. "Secrets." In
many of this poet's lines the
subject of secrets implies a constant
displacement of meanings. There is
a voluptuous shape to secrets in
poems which isn't quotable. If the
quotation suggests particular times
and places is a secret being finally
divulged? What is sometimes meant by
suggestions of divergence and
an aura of secrecy are wishes
on the part of the poet to conceal
certain vulnerabilities and
embarassments. On the other hand,
the very existence of the poem
implies revelation.

10. "You didn't contact us and
I don't understand. How can
friends be loved and no longer be
friends?" This line,
which seems perfectly clear is
broken off from the main body of
the poem and appears like an
"exclamation out of nowhere." Then
the poet reminds us tht poems
themselves appear as such exclamations.

11. "Secondary." The poet needs
a jumping off place and doesn't
want that place to be the
concept of the whole because then
the direction would be oblivion.
This is the meaning of "secondary"
because here the poet is seeking
a "secondary" not a primary
place to start out from. This is
not a move towards secrecy but
it does reveal a wish for
embeddedness. The fact of
a current occasion for this is seen not only
as a potential triviality but
actually as an impossibility. Suggestion
must lead to further suggestion, not


Now I remember what water
means- it means to remember
there is enough of everything, or
even more: it overflows, it continues.

Ths Shaman needs to know only
one thing. When to be still and

Just because the dead don't keep
in touch, it doesn't mean they don't think about us.

Publishers are sleepwalkers.


The irritant takes time away from movement
But is counter-movement
Can't find the cotton swab
Because it's there (as a
reason for selecting a particular piece)

But first: findings as compared to "public documents"
things you notice-things you find
(relevance to others- is a developing
public language)

The art of it- at a certain
vantage point- everything (each
piece) seems applicable and
relevant (somewhere)

"Make no mistake- abstract art is
a form of mysticism"

Trust to the guiding and influencing hand
(father figure)

"Oh do not ask what is it
Let us go and make our visit."
(TS ELiot)

(Simply) trying to find a
situation in which everything
is relevant

boundaries- overflowing and also creating

Only certain feelings will allow the
gates of beauty to open

fuzzy area of exactitude

later: 12:02 (8/26)

The collages are like people.
At first they seem strange-certain
facets stand out. They are not
yet recognizable. Certain kinds
of music is like this- particularly
that of Chopin and Debussy (for
me-obviously, other composers for
others). After awhile, the collages
become more recognizable and
only *then* the liking comes. At
first there is no liking, but
only strangeness. So I would
say not "make it new" but
"make it strange."

Monday, August 25

Nick and Toni at the Berkeley Marina- 8/18/03

Nick and Tony at the Berkeley Marina

Photo by Nikki Schrager

Sunday, August 24

SDPG...Dead Letter Game...Bill Marsh posted this:

"No ideas but in blogs."

Go, Bill! (Marsh, that is)

ok - you too, WCW
Never Neutral...Ernesto Priego posted some beautiful poems by Maria Tsvetaeva and Anna Akhmatova.

Mutual attraction
magnetic poles

positive negative

(earlier: In the Shadows of English
for the automatic
speaking piece) This kind of recitation
borrows some of the words from ideas
felt seismographically from waves of
effect stemming partly from the future.

The automaticity puts the intentions
in the direction of releasing energies
more for the purpose of investigation than for
directing them. Bernard Witte
quotes Walter Benjamin that the
writing of prose is done in sections:the
musical, the achitectonic and the textural.
That this sequence can be more
efficiently done in writing
rather than in speaking is due
in part to social rituals.
These rituals make certain very
powerful expectatations known to
those who exchange words. Words
re-enacted from a written text
follow the patterns of expectation inherent in
the act of making rules, laws
and prohibitions. When people
gather for scientific or
therapeutic purposes, for example,
the statements on the whole are
consciously directed towards the
unfolding of ideas in
a highly ordered, coherent


The sense of English being espoused
is not only the language but the
subject of English.

We should learn to to combine
as much for our differences as our

"It is a metaphysical truth that
all nature would begin
to lament if it were endowed with

Walter Benjamin
"On Language as Such and in the
Language of Man" 9p. 329- Reflections)


A fictional interview.


Nothing you read gets you any closer
to what you want to think about in
terms of content. You read in order to
provoke in yourself a kind of momentum
towards obtaining thought in a certain
key or intensity. In a reverse algebra,
the intensity then corresponds to the
range of repressed priorities that are otherwise
hidden so they may grow undisturbed by
the swirl of surrounding external impingements. That
the reading itself is every bit as absorbing
nonetheless only serves to bring home
the fact that what attunes us is
equal in importance to what we are
led to by means of an intensified awareness.


Loose shelves
Senior officials
In November, 1967 I hitchhiked across the country heading for San Francisco and Berkeley. I carried at least two record albums with me. One was Dylan's "Blonde on Blonde." The other was some Youngbloods albums. After a couple of weeks in Berkeley went to Amoeba in Haight-Ashbury, an enormous record and cd store and I bought, among other things, "Earth Music" by the Youngbloods. Toni's teased me -after I had replaced Billie Holiday with -The Youngbloods- about the awful rock music. But today, walking in Central Park, she asked me what a Tim Hardin song was doing on there, a song she's always loved.

I haven't been able to get this song out of my head for weeks...

"If I listened long enough to you
I'd find a way to believe that it's all true
Knowing that you lied straight-faced while I cried
Still I'd love to find a reason to believe

If I gave you time to change my mind
I'd find a way to leave all the past behind
Knowing that you lied straight-faced while I cried
Still I'd love to find a reason to believe

Someone like you makes it hard to live
Without somebody else
Someone like you makes it easy to give
Never thinking of myself"

(repeat from top)

(from "Reason to Believe"
Tim Hardin)

(repeat from top)
Consciousness, that master poet, never forgets that final touch, even when the heart itself does.