Self-releasing almost all of their music, playing in legion halls, and forming slightly ahead of the emo revival scene, TBLA were mostly overlooked and underappreciated during their time. What The Brave Little Abacus is not, however, is well known. They were eclectic, energetic, experimental, odd, off putting, and above all else, they were remarkable. Keep meeting gods I don't know.The Brave Little Abacus is hard to pin down. Sometimes when I'm laying there atop my treefort bed (imagination flowing through) I start to think again and again that I can't do this anymore (watch the world just sit and grieve). We'll lose our mobility before we figure out its use. Sometimes when I'm laying there atop my treefort bed (imagination flowing through the comforter)_There are so many different sentences trying to get produced. I'll take my time, maybe follow through, find these pine trees singing to some different sort of tune. To find myself giving in would ruin it, the act of preservation is acting nonetheless. Don't look back, don't look back, don't look back, but I have to because it's all I really want to do: dance and bathe with the same intent as the songs we spoke about. I'm running towards the exit of a university. Leave home like third grade students and their backpacks, running towards some small escape. Tell them of your progress, your golden painted headdress, the way you told her "you're just not yet old enough for it all". The books sprout wings to forget about the clutches of this scene: broken bottles in the streets cutting at the meek. Can't hear the sound made by the yarn, can't hear the blood flow through your arm, can't hear anything at all It seems these anythings are all the kind that believe reflections aren't the mobile ones that see, see, see, they see, see, see it all! How I'll run away from it all. Born again, reminded pine takes away a yearn for comfort, growth is doubled (as if it were a child), calms down. It seems these anythings are all the kind that believe reflections aren't the mobile ones that win, win, win, they win, win, win and run! How they run away, for it is march sixth two thousand and nine, I'm meeting the god I never knew, the god that i said never knew me. Can't hear the sound made by the yarn, can't hear the blood flow through your arm, can't hear anything at all. Wake up dead, the pine trees sing: "leave home". Doorway scene makes time for peace in a nearby ravine. It this is all never-ending then why am I ending? Born again, reminded, that there's the earth. I'll let these pedals push themselves! I could've kissed her on a bed not parallel to, but perpendicular to everything you've taught me, all these thoughts (unsound) and the idea of infinity. I say it's distant! Your hand approaches and as always it is wrapped in yarn reminding me of weekends past when Abby sang along "Ken you've got it all wrong, this is big this is real like a clocktower's minute hand only put behind the wheel. With every single drop come three more burdens. Take it back, take it back, oh please god take it back before the puddles turn to pools and the pools: a sea engulfing souls.
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