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The third chapter of conceptual E.P., 'Sonnets of Solipsism' in which fate is tested and thoughts echo uncontained...


The dim glow highlights, reflections on my eye-line;
I’m curled on my side in the foetal position.
Another nine marks on the wall, conditioned,
to document and read all information that I’ve been given.
It’s the way that I’ve been living, like the window keeps dripping.
One glass of water every self-perceived morning,
one pool of water from the window in the corner,
a wall full of scratches and marks…
Voices calling.

One thing I don’t understand.
When I lean against the wall why don’t I fall backwards?
Compress the earth with no space between the atoms,
and it scales right down about the size of an apple.
So the wall must be more nothing than in existance,
so why does it hold form, shape and consistency?
What lies the other side of the divide?
A Dead Black Space, a void or an exact copy of mine?

If I can identify nothing it is not nothing.
I can’t stop looking at the depths under the iceberg.
The tip doesn’t exist; it’s nothing more than this.
I scrape one more line on the wall with my nails.
Paint cracks and plaster crumbles.
And screeching interrupts the hum of the light bulb.
The drip of the window and the expansion of my lungs.
Occasionally my heartbeat when I count the next hour,
and think time is immaterial as no events have any consequence.
Even the grand scheme, whatever that may be.
Maybe all that I am is an analogy,
existing in the head of someone imaginary;
a thought experiment, a man alone in a room.
The same place he wakes, the same place he makes his tomb.

I’d like to think not.
I’m persistent in the fact that my existence remains intact.
So let’s think rationally.
The door could be shut, or open in actuality.
An equal chance – fifty-fifty coins flipped – the only shred of hope.
Gone with a lock, clicked.
What if the door sticks?
I’d better not touch it or test fate, just think.

What are thoughts?
Free will?
Or fate making an impact?
Our senses stay still.
Always in that one same position.
Don’t move, don’t let it trick you into submission.
Pull me out of a hat, a rabbit to a magician.
Is that all I am, over-watched by the system?
A network of duplicates to explain my decisions.
That’s what it is, every room’s a microcosm,
spanning on for as many variables as there is options.
That’s the problem,
nothing has a probability of one.
And as sentient beings our predictability’s none,
and it gets more convoluted as time ticks on.
I broke it down, to just one second.
And made a partial mental list of the events that happened.
Eyes blinking.
Each thought…
How it pans out and spreads
Now stop.
And wind that second back again.

What’s happened?
I explain the sequence of events,
Of course everything’s clear when you see it past tense.
The full painted canvas,
Scan past the mask and you’re still after answers.
When you see the first plans, it’s pure form and function.
Nothing is seen without pragmatics or assumption,
so I assume.
There should be a secret in the room,
a set of rules.
Go to sleep.
Wake with a glass of water, I’ll survive.
If I leave alive and trying,
it’s straight out the frying pan.
A kick in the diaphragm.
Try to devise a plan,
and throw it into the fire.


from Sonnets of Solipsism (Blank Room I), released April 19, 2012
All lyrics written and performed by B.Brandall.
Music performed by S.Tyrrell, composed and produced by S.Tyrrell and L.Tyrrell.



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Rough Drafts London, UK

Rough Drafts is a young spoken word artist constantly exploring the intricacies of solipsism, existentialism with a healthy onus on super-villains and Rube-Goldbergesque sentence structure.

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