AMS - Paper [tekst, tłumaczenie i interpretacja piosenki]

[Verse 1: AMS]

A life in epistolary, trap an existence in words/
A life story between the lines, follow the details of the curves/
Every inkblot donates to intricacies untold/
The frayed edges of the notebook, and how easy the paper folds/
The scratched and erased, the lifespan, probably what it's seen/
The ink fingertips that traced and dog-eared pages, making the edges unclean/
The scars and imperfections seem simple on the surface/
But every mark and singular speck serves a significant purpose/
Cognizant of only myself; the stray noise I could hear/
The soft static of pen against paper, and the speech that reached my ears/
The space between inspirations was just the wide rule of a line/
My ranges were infinite, lying between divine and D Minor Nine/
An addiction to ball-point pens, inject upon a daily round/
Carrying blanks with in case something came disguised as profound/
The hands ached, the surroundings and purpose changed/
Leather bound journals became napkins in restaurants, but the drive was still the same/
I dined upon jazz records, and digested the inspirations/
But suffered stomaches if I hadn't fulfilled the post-listening obligation/
Sip the record skips, and drain the rest to use as ink/
Absorb the stereo crackle of vinyl platter, and pushing myself to the brink/
Breathe deeply and exhale scrawls onto a page/
Falling off of my margins, and straight into a state enraged/
Attempt to chisel writer's block, back into tabula rosa/
A long journey to arrive back at the same line I was supposed to/
Plagued by papyrus, reject the type-casted elite/
Because I'd rather scratch out lines, instead of hitting keys to delete/
Rejoice when a manuscript is complete, consider the end product blessed/
But never resting on the laurels, turn the page, and start fresh//

[Verse 2: AMS]

Around About Midnight, I drank the last bottle of Bitches Brew/
Contemplating A Love Supreme, left me feeling Kind of Blue/
To snap my mind from the Blue Haze, I scribbled Sketches of Spain/
Spent the detail on the Birds of Paradise I saw from my windowpane/
Spoke on paper In a Silent Way, Explorations of better days/
The Undercurrents of my Tijuana Mood describes my Interplay/
Sundays at The Village Vanguard, and evenings at Birdland/
Drifting in and out of listening watching Porgy and Bess hold hands/
Naima said I was living my Life on Mars/
Hallucinations of Bamboo Children hanging outside of campus bars/
Stood under the rusted street lamps of yet another Iron City/
That was father to The Birth of Cool, but still shows no pity/
Tip my Porkpie Hat to my forefathers, inspirational kings/
Who pushed me to wire-bound and wide rule, A Few of My Favorite Things/
Put the needle to the groove, mindset at 33 rotations/
And attach ballpoint to Mead surface, riding along the improvisations/
The simplest of substances, with the greatest potential/
Less than centimeters thick, but having the power to trap instrumentals/
From phone number to phoneme, chicken scratch to magnum opus/
Oral hocus-pocus, smoking focus, just to make the dopest/
A paper planet with syllables written on each scrap side/
Would leave a lifetime of turning pages, looking for sentences inside/
Constrained only by time and the stanzas composed/
Letting the instruments fade to nothing, as I let the notebook close//