A Composition Of Functions

by Atlas At Last

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Recorded under 3 feet of snow in January 2014.

In conjunction with this release is this concert film, titled "The Composition Of Functions," directed, shot, and edited by Donald Borenstein: www.youtube.com/watch?v=94OVwPTIqLM

Cassette tapes are available through Funeral Sounds Records: funeralsounds.storenvy.com/products/11855112-atlas-at-last-a-composition-of-functions-cassette-tape-pre-order


released October 31, 2014

All songs written & performed by Atlas At Last:
Nathaniel Hartten - vocals/guitar
Mike Radack - bass/vocals
Jesse Catron - drums

Produced by Atlas At Last & Kenny Eaton
Recorded & Mixed by Kenny Eaton at Mystery Ton Studios, Monrovia, MD
Mastered by Alan Douches at West West Side Music, New Windsor, NY

Album art by Alexis Rehill

copyright 2014 Atlas At Last



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Atlas At Last Washington, D.C.


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Track Name: Function
I call you function, it’s a reference to formulaic happiness. Now every waking hour I spend calculating if the human body should be capable of surviving something so horrific. You have a chance to compose me, but you’ll let me drown. You had a chance to compose me.
Track Name: Splendid
Obsessing over limits continually redefined; my fingers snared in your veins within the composition’s lavish lines. These axioms abandoned, to favor continuous narrative. You bite through your lips to keep a smile, a function I will never understand. What I wouldn’t give to be in my most stable state. What I wouldn’t give. The entire existence an unabridged apology, reaching out to touch, betrayed by your skin. This process composed in a drastic black and white. I’m flooding with retrograde. Call into question the effect of loneliness, then vomit the subconscious of a victimless crime. My teeth are sharp and crooked. You reduce me to this, then smile the subjective. In defense of defense mechanisms. Love me, then treat me the way you have. Tire of our homeostasis. Long for your home wrecker. My teeth are sharp and crooked. I’m ready to start eating again.
Track Name: Compassion
Why’d you mute my whining lungs? I thought together we had tasted the grit of enough shattered sea shells. Oh, I feel like a kid again. We sat under a nuclear winter the eve of the snow that took you away from me. And do you remember the lavish surgery you performed? We cut the edges off by naming our children. I asked you, once more, to saw a bow across my chest: “It won’t be the last, it won’t be the last...” What does perfection’s ceiling look like? I thought the ether would carry my prose. Although I’ve exhaled the sails, we could never understand the wind. You are an ever beautifying apparition. Catalyst, whatever it may be, let me be the one to feed you to the trees. And as for me, compassion: lovely make me a meteor.
Track Name: In Habitat
This is becoming a real problem. Oh, how sure of you am I? The long term will supersede me in such wavering ways. Think this, this! This is my violent culmination. Such soft mornings take nothing away from me, in exponential bloom. In habitat, how would you program an android? And then, what would you expect? A civilized civilian salvation? Gone awry. Be nothing but an axiom for modern times. You, now, one last chance to not let me drown. I’ll wash up on the shore, shattered like the shells sticking to the bottom of your feet. I’ve been sad lately, because of what I could never forgive or resist was seen as a flaw manifesting itself. Contours in vain on the outset of wither; shredded wood held us in architecture. In the wake of waking and finding yourself a desolate isolate, you will, in fractals, leave but not resuscitate. Function, do you understand what I drew and what you’ve made? And now, you want to take it back. I wasn’t “selfish,” I was upset. “Sorry if I seem cold.” “You have no idea.” You have no idea. I, now, await you to devour the gale that pushed into my lungs when I was frail. Or was my failing in loving in falling in fictional planes? Every vector disassociates and forms a peak. Escaping velocities and coursing tangentals, functioning.