Very often, I find myself turning to this creative project in order to put off other important tasks that demand my attention. Accomplishment and success are dual monoliths that stand before me, perplexing in their purposes and functions, and foreign in all aspects. Am I like Kubrick's apes, lashing my fists in frustration against cold, dark facades? Eons would pass before those poor beasts would approach understanding. Ultimately, their lashing-out was the point all along. I don't have eons to wait, so I retreat and write. And I sing.

Making up this song kept me occupied while another productive weekend slipped through my fingers. The fault isn't with how I spend my time, but with how I define productivity and progress. My working definitions are no longer my own if they exclude writing music, setting words to melody, and banging on a synthesizer. All of these things are productive, and yet the words to this song gesture toward time spent idly, and progress forfeited. That must be somebody else singing.

In these lyrics, I ask what my progress is adds up to. Clearly, I was feeling detached from conventional benchmarks of progress, but the funny thing is that the answer to my question is self-evident. My progress adds up to the song itself, oblivious though I seem to be of the honest labor that its production required of me. Kubrick's apes never sought an option other than lashing out. I make things instead. I may be an ape, but I'm not one of his.