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Tulpa Infinitive

by The Paris Buns

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1.
Red Bow 03:53
The pressure rose daily in that heart of yours, and the hot winds made it the perfect storm. And your red bow flew off your head. When you came to with your bloodshot knuckles, spider webs red and wet dripped down your fingertips. And you looked at that mosaic that you made on that sunny summer day; no clouds nor shade could hide that fresco of pain. And your red bow flew off your head. I had begged you not to go there. I had hoped that you’d stay strong and hold it up inside you for a little longer. I thought you had my trust, thought you’d hold on just a little bit more. But I turned and you had both feet out the front door. And you summoned all the darkness in that heart of yours; localized and concentrated, precipitated liquid dread. And you tore that red bow right off your head, and I saw red blood pool in your hands.
2.
Hideaway 02:54
Your last known address was a North Philly mess where the bedbugs and mice run free. You still spend your days double fisting spray paint for fun. You still operate without an income. You break your teeth on the quarters on the street and the trash of the Bryn Mawr elite. You wake up with the bars on South, the taste of last night’s mistakes in your mouth. But you wash ‘em out with a can of Red Bull you stole with ease and the niacin flush gives a positive rush of energy. You wear T-shirts of your own design, a walking billboard for wares that no one buys. Your stomach churns; you see spots of white. You find your way in your cigarette light. You look through the cracks at your comfortable past, of all the people and the places that you pushed far away. But your last known address was a North Philly mess; you didn’t give a damn what we’d say. You drown out all the expectations, and add a shot of vodka to your nightly remedy. And the dopamine rush gives a positive flush of energy.
3.
Mountains of fast food wrappers made valleys on the floor, and a layer of haze made you lose your way to the refrigerator door. Two dozen old, too many worries to deny, so you stayed up all night watching old TV; called your friends up just to cry. But you’re older now, and getting older every day, and you’re trying to treat your body in a natural way. You got money in your pocket, a king sized bed and a caring soul to share it with. But you don’t tell them about the nightmares. All your days of shame are in boxes scarred with air holes. At night their eyes peek out at you underneath the closet door, and whisper your name. “Won’t you come and play?” Won’t you come and-- Wander through Grand Central stinking like a train. Sprinting through the crowd, your crusty clothes all soaked with rain. Strangers calling after you though they just learned your name. While your mind’s too wired to make memories, no two nights are quite the same. But they haunt you now from that deep, dark hole in the way back of your head and so deep down in your soul. And when your friends all ask you why you stare at the middle distance, you don’t tell them about the nightmares. All your days of shame are in boxes scarred with air holes. At night their eyes peek out at you underneath the closet door, and whisper your name. “Won’t you come and play?” Won’t you come and-- Look at you all grown, thinking about the years that you were all alone, chasing fantasies so fast that you spun out of control. Now you’re settled down, but the thoughts still race around. Surrounded by the people, the ones who truly care, you don’t tell them about the nightmares. All your days of shame are in boxes scarred with air holes. At night their eyes peek out at you underneath the closet door, and whisper your name. “Won’t you come and play?” Won’t you come and-- They whisper your name… “Won’t you come and play?” Won’t you come and play?
4.
Gotta Be You 03:33
You crawled out from Oxnard with nothing but a name you didn’t care for anymore. And you took your act east to a small Tompkins County bookstore. You swore you’d never beg, but ugly thoughts got in your head, and a third story window shone a light on you that said: “You belong.” And a new dawn rose for you on your birthday. You gotta be you when everything else feels broken. You gotta live up to your truth. No matter what they say, it’s better than living with the pain. Show the world what’s new; you gotta be you. So you take what makes you realize all the dreams you had, and you throw away everything else that used to make you feel mad, because your crew around here says if you get too mad, They might not lock you away for that, but it’ll make you look real, real bad. It’ll make you feel bad. You know you survive in this soft, little bubble. If you venture too far, folks might still give you trouble and you’ll feel split in two and spit onto. You might feel split in two and spit onto. You gotta be you when everything else feels broken. You gotta live up to your truth. No matter what they say, it’s better than living with the pain. Show the world what’s new; you gotta be you. And a new dawn’s rising for you. You’re finally gonna get what you’re due and be who you always knew you’d be someday. You gotta be you when everything else feels broken. You gotta live up to your truth. No matter what they say, it’s better than living with the pain. Show the world what’s new; you gotta be you.
5.
Free Child 03:24
Your father’s cuffs and gun are staring at you day and night. Take flight when the mood arises like an angry sun. Learning all the tricks of the master lockpicks, of all the expert moles, with souls so sooted over they become their own dark hole. Will you get free, child? Escape the lights that bind you. Make your own stars and find a new way home. Navigate your twisting tunnels; a hundred lives await you if you can escape, child. How long will you stay, child? You have tested the waters, pushed the borders of your youth. But you dream of new horizons, say you’ll see them sometime soon. Every time you open your eyes you see a concrete cell of four walls all painted pink, a cotton candy childhood hell. Plot your next exit; when you’re charting out your course, you don’t find anything thing mapped out beyond your own front door. Will you get free, child? Escape the lights that bind you. Make your own stars and find a new way home. Navigate your twisting tunnels; a thousand lives await you if you can escape, child. How long will you stay, child? All you ever wanted was a Springsteen album life; you only want to get away from it all. But you don’t run, you walk; you don’t walk, you crawl. You try to fly so high, but all you do is fall. Everyone you know has tried to push you, pull you, make you come around. Listen to the sound, let it be your sound, let it help you get your mind unbound and get free, child. Escape the lights that bind you. Make your own stars and find a new way home. Navigate your twisting tunnels; a million lives await you if you can escape, child. How long will you stay, child?
6.
You used to serenade throughout the day, imagine us some pretty things, give ‘em wings and let ‘em fly away. You walked down the sand and you drowned them all; watched ‘em fall down as far as they could go. Take a breath. Raise your head. Crawl out of the ocean. Ride the storm. Feel reborn. Crawl out of the ocean. My muse, my guiding voice; I understand, you wouldn’t let it be my choice. But with all that filled your head, you never said; we couldn’t help but expect it. Your voice as clear as day was a seabreeze blowing, but when it spilled below the surface, it was a hint of foreshadowing. Take a breath. Raise your head. Crawl out of the ocean. Ride the storm. Feel reborn. Crawl out of the ocean. I know you wanna dry out, dry out like a stone, and go as low, as low as you can out, and stay all alone. But you’re not alone. Don’t you know many things wish they could sink to the bottom with you? I’ve been there too. Take a breath. Raise your head. Crawl out of the ocean. Ride the storm. Feel reborn. Crawl out of the ocean…

about

Tulpa Infinitive is an EP with six songs about six friends with whom I used to keep more in touch. All of them have gone about their own lives, and while I check in every once in a while, I've found it harder and harder to reach them nowadays. We were all much younger and had much greater imaginations at the height of our friendship. Work and lack of money have whittled us down, but although our relationships have become a little threadbare, we still have fond memories to look back on.

This album is an attempt to immortalize all of those old friends into song, for better or for worse. It catalogs who they were, who they are, who they're destined to become. I hope that you enjoy it; I certainly hope they do, if they're listening. Thank you.

credits

released February 15, 2019

All instruments performed by Will Sisskind.
Tracks recorded, mixed, and mastered on a dying ASUS laptop between December 2018 and January 2019 in Park Slope, Brooklyn, NY.
All love, of course, to Becca, who heard these songs first.
Thanks to the friends who inspired this album for letting me share their stories. Please don't get mad.

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The Paris Buns Brooklyn, New York

The Paris Buns is Will Sisskind and his group of imaginary (and sometimes real) friends. Will has a blue guitar and plays folk rock. Thank you.

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