Factored In [EP]

by Glow Mechanics

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about

Factored In [EP] Release party 9/18/14 at First Ave's 7th Street Entry.

"I Know People" music video: youtu.be/a1EI4NegmYo

Facebook: www.facebook.com/GlowMechanics
Twitter: www.twitter.com/GlowMechanics
E-mail: yo@GlowMechanics.com

credits

released 18 September 2014

Written, produced, recorded, mixed, and mastered by Glow Mechanics.
Art by Plane Jane; video by Twan and Plane Jane.
Cuts on "Lost Trace" by DJ Father Time
Cuts on "Rare Hymn" by Moses

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Track Name: Factored Intro
Legally blind when it comes to between the lines. In a limited sky, they're paying no mind to the birds or planes or any other thing. Posted on all fours or more, selling shit from door to door.

I have never even come to the fruition that I lauded. Over my head for no reason even as I'm on the verge of re-applying older topics in the name of different options. Breathing in the tracest toxins and stashing them. Saving them for later cause I've had it with my nosy neighbors.

Highly indecisive but enlivened. "I'll do that too" is what I said to Simon on the first day of the first month of my third crack at living well. I sought the sweet spot between excited and enlightened in overlapping intervals.

And I can barely tell the difference from minute to minute. Maybe switching up the mission so often is the cause, then. I've been to the point but never moved past it so when I snap back the whole place col
Track Name: I Know People
Lowry corner, cup of coffee, two mimosas, bowl of whiskey, plate of bacon, benny, Mercenary, then I'm out. Further from the point of no return like tourniquets itching to make me limbless. That's what I call living.

Hard Times, long timeline, soft people. Dominos, cribbage, cup of coffee and a quesedilla. Eavesdropping on the nomadic urban shaman folk, and the feeling of float that comes when your soul's at home.

Get them at the fresh-pressed linens. before the French presses hit 'em. Early bird killed by the kitten. Silver tongue, bad breath, and black teeth. Ask you shall receive, but my finger crossed in the mittens.

I know people who live inside a sweet spot.
I know people, yes I do.

Bugged eyes, itchy lungs and a spirit stoked. Near and close up to the legend of the peer-reviewed fear and loathe. Here we don't walk with that shoulder chip. Everybody's acting weird, nobody's making note of it.

Tongue in cheek special, order the No. 1 and lick the roof of your mouth for the flavor of the month.

Savor with your tongue the taste of not having an enemy and the feeling that awashes when you shed what you pretend to be.
Track Name: Lost Trace (cuts by DJ Father Time)
Caught flat footed in the haze of an endless half epiphany, trying to think of things to think about. I took a solace in the fact that my contacts were sorta magnified but never found a full heart in the think aloud. I figured out a motive that I thought would really suit me, but the forcing of my life force proved anything but soothing. Now I'm taking off my cap to cats who live on a domino obstacle path and topple down one task, and then the next, and keep moving.

And I'm high-level strategic. And it undermines the central cause of my mission statement sequence. And I'm underzealous when it comes to letting things keep being. If I find a rock, next time I'll drop it in the sea, walk down the beach, & reboot my quest for freedom.

Lord, please don't let me grow into the type of man who says "frick." Cut the schtick, tunnel under other modes of glib. Over gripped, under loose, nervous chuckle every time a fellow man's cutting lose and surmising sincere.

My ears glued to the ground, but the nose up. Mouth under scarf cause they don't gotta know I know stuff, do they? I don't want to model after stupid movies. Wanna straddle zany tension in a plot with no arc like an episode of Louie.

Streamlined down the middle and conceived as its presented. Zen invented by the same twists that used to wind the tension. Benchmark = something like "effective but homely" or "starts slow but grows on me."

At my mothership wit's end. How many sips til you hit the center of mass? Amass doubt, down and out on the couch. The television buzz doesn't lull me to sleep so I wander the streets like thoughts are something that I could shake off.

Worst of the lot. Bottom rock of the pops. And it's easy for me to get gone, but I never stay lost. Off switch has been trying to find its niche for a grip.

This patina doesn't come any cleaner with a rub-a-dub. Most cats coming at us with a breath of bubble gum. Not weatherproof, just used to bad weather blues. Look out of the window instead of checking the evening news.

I rock the boat back and forth. Find a hole in the side of it, hop off my laurels to find cork and plug. What good is a thumb? Need to move on my own to away from the post I'm hitching from.

I life my life in small segments, so if need be I can recall single seconds upon my exit. Down low outro or big bang, all the same. Still a one-way spectacle, tunnel vision festival. A few truths in solid rock and the rest is up for speculation. A who's who of puzzled faces, each different but the same in basic composition, and that still doesn't attest to what they're really made of.
Track Name: Swim
In the glow of the green light, dark side of the moon, dark side of the room. Same two confused, manuever from what's done to left to do and kept linear to roll over the snafus. Lately, I'm feeling smash-proof. Dig deep so I have a planet to come back to.

And combat moves with poison whatever, hype yourself into a later. Never been better. Like you're the Dali Llama of the oxford comma, toppest doggin verbal doctor rappin' Phantom of the Opera. Please. To me that's a diminishing return because I have no interest in the size of one's instep.

Marks made, target locked, more do, less talk. These are not spent chalk, these are notes that help my development, character and any other kind. Finally find your fire, get sized and retired, like: "Can he really kill it? Can he kick it? Yeah, okay, he can, as long as he leaves in a couple minutes." My short attention span won't let me hold convo and visit; sit and listen to one fact from an abundance of subjects.

Not done yet.

From the city center to the suburbs, I'll hate me in the winter but I'll love me in the summer. And I wonder if I've ever been anything other than a number plugger. My hands locked, then some. Straws I can't drink from.

I'd live to sign a deal with Lame Pun Records, get some bunk ass treatment and spend double on seconds. The creative process comes with a drawn out checklist. Imperative that check marks outweigh X's.

That's not me, breathe, head between knees. Don't wade in these streams to deep. Mostly toe dips, not dark down panic. You shouldn't spend all your time in water you can stand in. Swim.
Track Name: ...Destroyed
I'm getting word that [something something something, blah blah]
Cut the lights, shut off the website, call the boss
A crisis of proportions that the bible never covered. You can never drip a drop of this, not to your girlfriend, not your mother.
If we play our cards like Doyle Brunson we can walk with just a slapped wrist. Just gotta be airtight; no elastic.
You can't afford to be known as that one who sewed that last stitch. I shit you not, one slippery step will truly be your last slip.
So quick, here, let's circle up and number off. 1, 2, 3, 4. Remember, you've done nothing wrong. It's just that the wrong people are confused about what right is. So now you'll want to scrap that metal pole before the lighting.
Think before you speak but not so much so that you don't act, and prepare the spend the rest of your days as a nomad in no man's land if it comes to it, which I hope as much as all of you combined that that is not the case so, here, ready, break!

"I don't know" is the extent of my vocab as it stands now. Recede into the herd and make them play Where's Waldo for the cash cow. I'll be grazing by the pond, from this day and on, unless somebody gets sloppy and forgets to turn a light off.

I might stop off and grab some chips, and some cigs, and some matches, and some glasses, and a wig, and I might not.

What do you think team? You guys are being awful silent. I'm dumbstruck and scared too, and won't stand here and lie about it. But if you want to roll with me, you'll have to take my lead, and if you're holding any final questions, now's the time to speak.
Track Name: Rare Hymn (cuts by Moses)
Zig zag and a right juke, back track, spin move, goal from the back of the field. Kick to the back of the heel. No-look half-deke highlight on a piecemeal reel.

I'm bored a second into it, nostalgic for the time when I was holding down a fort with 40-some-odd different entrances. Oh for Pete's sake though. I got a problem with the modern man's shtick of sculpting firm plans in Play Doh. Blatant forces go ignored in the face of a fake faith that it'll be so if you say so.

There's something about a person that makes it worth it to engage them. Even if you hate them. It's often called moxie. It's probably called something else too that I'll remember once I take a sip of coffee. I'm feet-first makeshift, made from the forces that made sandstone and birds and so forth. I go forth, focused on the torch in a boiling pursuit, until the pilot light dies and I get bored and the corners get smooth.

Into the light, out of the natural habitat. Came and went, grass gave way to pavement. You bite the hand that feeds or claw at the teats and you start to feel sick, like how many licks to the center of raw meat?

No lips and all teeth. Tart, yes yes ya'll and no sweets. saute rotten vegetables and don't eat. Birds of a feather rock sets together and whether or not it's interesting hovers at 50/50. Sift through the different themes of being awake, pick the ones you like then scratch the ones that don't fit. That's it. Ya slipped.

Novices, like you didn't grab a couple rations as your first action in Metal Gear Solid. And not much promise but enough to still go at it often. I toe-test the air as I'm held down under water. Come up, cough, inhale and drag the lake again. Trash to flukes, to this fish, gems.
Track Name: Summer Ends
Totem pole full of wrath on the ground floor. Middle's what I want to stick around for. So-so on the taste test. Golden on the apex. Folded in itself, and it's strong, but it's tasteless. Not the time to time warp. Sly enough to pine for. Eye'd it up and down until it's shine became the kind you can't decide if it is timeless or an eyesore. It's unattackable but somehow falls short of being actually magical.

Float it out to sea and back. It can never really stay what you leave it as. Mineral utility but ruby jewel consistency, it staggers but it's moving with a certain crude agility.

Back, back, feed it no scraps. Please don't grieve its missteps, it doesn't like that. It doesn't give two haves of a fuck about cleaning it's mess. I don't defend but I respect it.

Dirty snow knocks the cobwebs off for spring and summer. The eyes for seven wonders, the tummy for neighborhood watch. 50,000 watts pushed through a computer speaker. System overload, navel gazing with major sinister overtones. I feel like half of the mad lyrical is as bad lyrical does. Solid buzz a few days of the month. Trash unraveled, re-work, edit, better. Fine line between what's said and what's seen.

From the tips of the toes to the bones of your breast, I want you to feel this close like I'm almost holding your neck. Teeter between golden and closest to death. In the moments that it hits me I'm holding my breath, I go: back.

Back into the roar again, it's torrid but it comes in spurts. Alluring in the way that when you look at it, it never works. High and tight blindside. Dirty, rusty forceps. Stuck it on my forehead, forgot to look for it.

I lurch forward and get pushed out of orbit, which led to a torrent of right moves in the wrong order, so now normal seems boring, and I can't go back to the puzzle pieces. If it all comes up trumps, it's been nice to meet ya.