Built out of two voices, this piece attempts to present what the Tower of Babble would sound like.

» highest in charts:   # 1213   (156,216 songs currently listed in Alternative)
» highest in sub-genre:   # 178   (34,831 songs currently listed in Alternative > Experimental)

Based on an abbreviated version of the text created in Discord Aggregate's online collaboration (www.discord-aggregate.com/towerofbabble). This composition is uniquely featured in A. Molotkov's contribution to "Preliminary Observations" by Cindy Lubar Bishop, A. Molotkov and Pamela Zero, a 27-piece exhibit of visual works held in November 2001 in Berkeley, CA.

The shape is not as important as the rational. I danced with my own reflection and sang with my echo. This was to continue among the times to be and time that were. When we arrived, I knew that we may never leave. Whose fault is it? The rational is not as important as the reason. My mental meal is the key to my success. But what about others? Our friendship flowered there, among the ruins of this forgotten civilization. We were to establish what exactly had taken place there so many or so few years earlier. Where were we to start? And whose decision was it to send us there in the first place? Last I heard, they were serving several intentions and a side dish of hopes. Pass the metaphor please - heavy on the participle. The stem of realistic sensation is withered.

The reason is not as important as the result. I whispered to you a word whose meaning is not to be underestimated. How can something small be sufficient? Now - if not, who will be there to witness another now? Once again, we came to the conclusion that a reversal of our plan would be sufficient. Were we making a mistake? Who is there to say that we were not doing our job! I heard the whispers, then I saw the perpetrator. Can you hear me? It looked nothing like I expected it to look. What was I supposed to do? What could I have done?

I suggested that we change our approach. The result is not as important as the intention. Things were becoming truly wonderful, but there was no one left to wonder. Every emotion pointed in one direction: escape. How did it end up this way? Who is responsible for this situation? Should our faces be pointed into the past or into the future? Could it be a matter of personal choice? I couldn't take my eyes off it- I'd never seen anything like it. Where did it come from? Is there such thing as personal choice? A wonderful distraction, but we still had to come up with a plan. I couldn't help myself. I touched it. A wonderful pointed nose. A wonderful pointed hat. Roof. Pyramid. Hat. Cone. A wonderful pointed point. What side are you on ... yet, it no longer matters.

When I came in, I noticed that the doorframe was missing? Was that appropriate? The intention is not as important as the presentation. Who is bold enough to criticize our approach? By contrast, his arrival was marked by elegance, and specifically, all doors behaved well. If I forget the door again, you can give me two windows and I'll make sure they swim this time. This endeavor will forever remain our swan song. One was red and the other was unfinished. I tried and I opened and I knocked and I fell and then I knew. I suggest that next time we leave through the door. How will we get in? This is an entirely different question. Why are things the way they are?

Nothing that was said remained unnoticed. But was anything at all said? Did it matter? The presentation is not as important as the information. Who is in charge here? I remember noticing that the left side of the horizon had been removed. I was lucid before and after the event. But can I safely say that I was lucid during it? The crumbling of time - the explosion of age - the settling reality. We were correct, but mistaken.

Between the necessary and the noise. Between the allowed and the apparent. Next time we may think of something else, but it is not too late to state that now is the next time. Between the intent and the anchor. The joy of knowing that we were not the only ones about to perish. Would we really have to die? The information is not as important as the function. Between the explosions, we played war on a board placed in our memory. Between the understood and the inclement. Between the unapproachable and the known. The most successful rendition of our theme was not yet tried. Between the certainty and the clash. Between the joy and the chaos. Between the withheld and the refused. Between the need and the knowing. Let us collaborate on a tale of doom where we are the punchline and our death is the sentence. Between the unsaid and the important. Between the time and the hope. Santa Claus does not belong in this town.

The vague is so reliable. Air may not always be what it seems. We remain cautious. Where am I heading? What is my destination? Who are you in the obstacle of my day? Mystery happens when there are more questions than answers. But a more persistent type of mystery occurs when there are more answers than questions. The function is not as important as the beauty. I insisted, and they agreed; then they insisted and I complied. Currently, the air seems to be transparent, but we are not sure that this will remain the case. Do you have a whistle? I traveled around the world in two seconds to be with my crew. Whatever happens, this is not my fault, nor will I submit to any kind of investigation. I remember the expression on your face when you learned that we had died. Don't cover your eyes!! Don't lock me out - let me inside! Air currents took his soul and brought it directly to me. I made it into a memory module. I insisted, and they agreed; then they insisted and I complied.

I remember the look on your face when you found out about it. I stretched my hand along the horizon, but then I realized that we were inside. Like a hospital bed, like the surface of water, like the top of a balloon. Every sound was smooth, every surface transparent. Every emotion was presented on a separate sheet of paper. The beauty is not as important as the speed. The approaching sound of the world above you - the sounds stretched to fit smooth surfaces. My failure to arrive was just a technical mistake. Who is responsible for this situation? You can buy those ideas anywhere. My soul was stretched on a smooth surface, and then it too became smooth, like a child's soul. I volunteered to look around. This is my favorite moment. The sounds stretched around me, as if dipped in glue. I am unsure, but relaxed. Then once again, we claimed that everything was incorrect. Everyhting stretches to fit the smoothness of the surface. Thoughts and beliefs stretch to fit. Sounds stretch to match the thoughts.

I was the first to conclude that the chosen approach would result in failure. I sent my associates a subliminal message, urging them to explode. The speed is not as important as the impact. But they chose to ignore my suggestion, which is a serious mistake on their part. Who is responsible for this situation? My absence was accidental. They suggested the exchange of positions, whereby the wounded and the dead would be exchanged as well. I personally assure you that your opinions will not be considered, even if they are subliminally transferred. This is our responsibility, and we will face it again. Have you been there yet? Quiet in the absence of any further proof of existence!

How about now? The waves came first, then the definitions. The impact is not as important as the idea. I thought it would be the other way around. Tell me what you need right away, for I already know what it is. I define definitions as needs to knead ideas into knowing. Who is the perpetrator? I wrote to them, asking for a possible reversal, but they did not respond. The waves crushed against my chest and then evaporated. Am I the only one? As I release, I renew. Whenever I was there, I saw your face. The essense of reality became condensed, both in time and space. Of course, I remember you. You were the one with the mirror and the fish. I need to know the next idea before I can commit to this one. Joy in intention and side mirrors. I think you are ultimately unaware of the reasons, the goals, and the definitions. But does this make you less prepared? Again, the waves of translucent definitions.

The intention of a stone is to remain forever. What is more relentless: a hair or a snake? The idea is not as important as the meaning. I instigated the start of the beginning, but it was your fault that the circumstances worked out the way they did. My sabotage was not intentional. Who is responsible for this situation? How much is real? There is a slight delay in reality right now. Any chance of repair? I may take some time off soon and find the missing shoes. It is between them and us that the essential psychic battle took place. Yet, no one could really be sure about what is happening. Perhaps nothing was happening? The meaning is not as important as the sound. Perhaps everything was happening at the same time? But what is same time? The shadow that time leaves is sometimes seen in dappled sunlight. We contrived to establish a distinguishing characteristic that would separate these two concepts. When I saw you, you were rust. I remember the look on your face when you found out about it. Next time we will try to approach this differently. I triumph when it is too late not to triumph. One more time our delegates proceeded to jump off the cliff.

My soul was the last to arrive. Then once again, we claimed that everything was incorrect. The whirling was supposed to be the only solution. There was the one who was unable to manifest into an actual shape. A spiral of whirling intentions, but no actual body or form. Who could be more independent than someone who does not exist? Intentions are without remorse. The sounds are not as important as the shape your mouth makes. This time, we decided to approach the situation from a different angle. What was that angle to be? It was handy to have the world so miniature on the palm of my hand. The translation may have not been so accurate, as we later discovered. And as for me, I am underneath the edge of the table. The whirling direction was not specified in advance, making it almost impossible to achieve any kind of synchronicity. If not in space, we envisioned a shift in time. Were we mistaken again? I will, I will, I will, I am. The compound of information that we had accumulated has become corrupted. I will, I will.