Release your self and lay it here, upon my chest, commands the man, and I'll find words for how this futon feels: like steps in well-padded shoes, some soft bites inside a slice of bread; I'll describe the Art of Lying Down. [Brief instrumental interlude] Perceived in relief from a host of darkened feelings: retreat, defeat, head mindless under covers, minion of the ostrich... Opposed to pain that rigid horizontal, this is instead ascent, to a quiet perfect motion even the flushed unbending of fatigue or the resignation after love must jar; though good studies, both will leave the final depth and coloration unfamiliar, as scribbled lines won't mirror mountains. [Brief instrumental interlude] A mystery to most who use the bed, the couch, the floor, the art is quite demanding, and more difficult for humans than mammals like the cat. The corresponding hobby would be termed just relaxation. But Lying Down, you understand, is more instructive to the artist, is in fact life-altering, antithetical to death. And like any art, possesses multitudinous faces repeatedly fracturing time in a fall from grace into grace or something akin to salvation. [Repeat as distant echo] And like any art, possesses multitudinous faces repeatedly fracturing time in a fall from grace into grace or something akin to salvation.
