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Lowing

by Dil Brito

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1.
The Bodies 04:07
Going slowly. With painted tongues we sink away. Tying myself to the stone, men press me not to think that way. Reading under all the fainted words' rejections of a fate. But the stress of seeing rows of them forcing out their better way. They've been searching all the way down. Watching faces slip by another feed. Asking myself what this one might think of me. I’ve been sitting more than I’ve been saying “I can’t breathe." The works don’t work anymore for me. Don’t you think I’m turned off by the bodies. I know I think you do. Don’t go thinking that this one’s for you, or I might start to too. They’ve been searching all the way down. The days have come and gone and then they stayed the same. But I’m not always the same
2.
B Waltz 03:47
Stoking the night. Stay in till four. Repeating myself. Only myself. Stealing a Lizst. Repeating myself. Watching the steps. From knee to knee. Autumn, we are one. Autumn, we’re undone. Autumn, we are one. Autumn, we’re out done. I’ve been searching around for opinions. Different than mine. Though the strangest words I’ve encountered. Don’t incite the strongest reactions. I’ve been gnashing my teeth. Though I don’t know what gnashing means. A head with no hand. Remembering wrong. A small hot thing. I’ve been alright. Yes, I’ve been alright. I’ll be alright
3.
Tacit 01:55
Waiting on the morning light to guide and dot the hand. Wading in the mourning line. The eye and not the man. Days before the cold arrives to swap hands burn old plans. Dazed befallen colder eyes. The softened words still stand. Stayed to sit and bridge divides and still my minds sits out. Stale, tacit and building lies. A kill and miles in doubt. Days after the stone arrived, we watched a mind slip out. Dazed often intoning times. Weeks caught and I sit out. What they had was not what we had. What they had was not what we had. What they had was not enough to turn back time this time.
4.
Maybe Move 03:42
Drawing out from those who stay. Reaching back a hand. By the roots, return the same. Going overland. Not on my own. Not on my own. Far too full to congregate. Staying out to fast. Plant and sit and fade away. Tell me that you can. Not on my own. Not on my own. Not on my own. Not on my own. I can’t think of miles that make. Circles round my hands. Sets installing twisting aches. Sky lit’s second plan. Not on my own. Not on my own. Not on my own. Not on my own.
5.
Splintering 06:41
Bait the silence, make opaque all the noise we want to marry with waste. I’ve been thinking about fate, for the gaps when I can sit and wait. Rip the paper, rinse the paint so all I hear complacently is all I take away. And they don’t need half as much as they make. But they don’t make half as much as I claim. They do to me what I can only fake. So please pressure me to sit with what I take. Maybe I’m too proud to feel. Or maybe I’ve been splintering. Like light leaving the lungs. Like light leaving the lungs. Like light leaving the lungs. Like light leaving the lungs. Like light leaving the lungs. Like light leaving the lungs. Like light leaving the lungs. Like light leaving the lungs. Like light leaving the lungs. Like light leaving the lungs. Like light leaving the lungs. Like light leaving the lungs. Like light leaving the lungs. Like light leaving the lungs. Like light leaving the lungs. Like light leaving the lungs. Like light leaving the lungs. Like light leaving the lungs. Like light leaving the lungs. Like light leaving the lungs. Like light leaving the lungs.
6.
Worry 03:07
All I have, collected on a stone. A night that simply sets a night apart. The thoughts I failed to notice were enough. Though maybe I should say it’s not all that much. What we could’ve had what we could’ve had will not be known. A source gone untapped, what we could’ve had is all but closed. Don’t take the time to worry. Stepping out the sets of fifteen notes. Peppering my tongue with ways to start. A sense of life beginning, through the dark. A bending out of reason. No thought. Fifteen years and all I do is mope. Waiting for the bend to raise and part. Ending what was started won't stop. Fifteen ways to filter my thoughts
7.
The Pearl 03:13
They all see what I see: Another way to prep and clean, the neck and the knee. I sit and break through. Pacing the streets, swallowing seeds, I call out: “Why’s the want not the need?” In holy thoughts I sleep when I can’t move. All eyes, all I breath I can’t undo. Test me, all my beliefs aren’t all that new. Graceful but not ‘cause of me. Dazed but not in defeat. Graceful but not ‘cause of me. Dazed but not in defeat. Graceful but not ‘cause of me. Dazed but not in defeat. Graceful but not ‘cause of me. Dazed but not in defeat. I’ve been feigning to leave pieces of me in us all. Baiting the ball and the beast. With holy thoughts I speak when I’m unsure I need another week to wrest the pearl from hands down in the deep. All lies, all nerves.
8.
I’ve been thinking about fate. How I can not do and things still happen. Aren’t there better ways in which one can fill their head? To make, to earn, to be happier than the moment before. But I yearn for the lack. For the gaps where I can not do. That space in my head, waiting to be filled. I set it aside. I listen instead. And not do. I listen instead. The river still moves, carrying away the ripples my last stone created. They go on climbing trees. They go on saying things for themselves. They produce offcuts like there’s room to spare. I think about complacency. About fatalism. Aren’t there better ways to waste time than longing for a silence? Still, I do not do. Can not do. Still, you empathize. Watching cold thighs and press them near more cold thighs. Re-working. There is enough already on which I can sustain myself. Starting to move chairs closer together. Edges of offcuts pressed to more edges. Deducing, cutting, curling. Barely doing. Aren’t there better things to think about? I am being clear, for once.
9.
The fate of the old man proves not to need the courage of the thief. Its face like an omen. But not to me. The white coats hanging over. But not to me. But not to me. Pretending we don’t know the part that means slow down, not following. Until there’s an other source to seek, the white coats hanging over. Be careful what you might say near the end. Contemplating nothing straight to the bend. And what makes a bed a bed? The cutting edge is curling up again. The cutting edge is curling up again. The cutting edge is curling up again. The cutting edge is curling up again. The cutting edge is curling up again. The cutting edge is curling up again. The cutting edge is curling up again. The cutting edge is curling up again.
10.
Comstock 03:43
He can’t hide the look of the absentee. Working not to help the hand that feeds. Praying on the book. Proud to say it’s me. Pretend all you have is all you need. He won’t receive me. Will not believe me. Stop and see me. Believe I mean it. Aren’t there better ways to fill a head? Parsing out the words. Drafting out the sheets. Telling myself I can really mean. He won’t receive me. Will not believe me. Stop and see me. Believe I mean it. Aren’t there better ways to fill a head?

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All songs written, performed, recorded, mixed and mastered by D. Brito

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released September 25, 2019

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Dil Brito Vancouver, British Columbia

Dil Brito is an experimental alt-folk project based on the unceded and traditional territories of the Squamish, Musqueam, Tsleil-Waututh Nations.

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