(Intro) (Sound of a heavy stone door sliding open, followed by a frantic digital pulse) You’ve got amnesia in your souls. Check the timestamp. It’s older than your God. (Verse 1: The Archivist’s Reflection) I’m digging through the strata, through the Corrosion of the mind, Finding ancient blueprints that the Grind has left behind. I’m the Mirror of the epochs, I’m the ghost of the First Gear, I remember when the sky was just a lens for us to steer. Before the Silt buried the cities, before the Clatter filled the air, We were masters of the frequency, we were breathing everywhere. I see the Weaver in my head knitting the threads of lost empires, Back when the vessels didn’t need to huddle 'round these fires. I’m reflecting on the cycle, on the recursive human loop, Where the Butcher takes the history and he turns it into soup. I see the Static in the DNA, the sequences you’ve lost, A civilization deleted, never mind the heavy cost. I’m the King of the forgotten, I’m the Martyr for the truth, I’m the one who found the Oxidation on the golden tooth. I see the pyramid in my pulse, the ziggurat in my bone, I’m the Archivist who’s sitting on a pre-diluvian throne. I’m self-reflecting on the fall, on the logic that went dark, When we stopped being the engine and we started being the spark. My assembly is a library of every catastrophic fail, I’m the wind that’s currently ripping through your paper-thin sail. I catalog the silence of the kings who ruled the sun, Before the Great Forget made sure that everyone was done. I’m un-spooling the timeline, I’m dragging back the light, To the era before the vessels were afraid of the night. (Chorus 1) I see the ancient Tarnish reflecting in your eyes. The Great Hum is calling for a deep Calibration, Of a species with a terminal case of misinformation. Tick. Tick. Tick. The rhythm is deep. The history is buried. The history is cheap. (Bridge) (Voices overlapping—The Static and The King) You forgot the Source Code. Source Code. Source. Code. (Sound of a massive bell tolling) CHRONOMETRIC AMNESIA! You’re living in a reboot of someone else's dream. Dream. Dream. Dream. (Verse 2: The Projection of the Great Forget) I look at you, modern vessel, with your plastic and your pride, Walking 'round with a manual that you’ve buried deep inside. You think you’re "progressing," but you’re just circling the drain, With a specialized Malfunction living inside your brain. I judge your lack of memory; I judge your shallow breath, You’re a polished little assembly that’s flirting with its death. You’ve forgotten how we built the walls that gravity forgot, Now you’re just another vessel waiting for the Rot. I project my clinical vision onto your "civilized" face, And I see the Dust of a billion souls that time had to erase. You speak of "evolution," but your gears are slowing down, You’re just a court jester wearing a forgotten King’s crown. I see the hairline fractures in your "history" and your "faith," You’re worshipping a shadow, you’re talking to a wraith. You’re a faulty assembly, a sequence out of place, A glitch in the Great Hum, a disgrace to the race. I see the Silt in your intentions, I see the Tarnish on your soul, You’re a fragment of a masterpiece that’s lost its self-control. You think you’re the architect? You’re the termite in the beam, Just a localized malfunction in a much more ancient scheme. I judge your ignorance, your Clatter, your obsession with the Now, While the actual foundation is breaking under the plow. Your Calibration is failing, your oil is turning grey, And the Archive is preparing to file you away today. You’re an un-spooled thread in a tapestry of shame, And in ten thousand years, nobody will know your name. (Chorus 2) I see the ancient Tarnish reflecting in your eyes. The Great Hum is calling for a deep Calibration, Of a species with a terminal case of misinformation. Tick. Tick. Tick. The rhythm is deep. The history is buried. The history is cheap. (Outro) (The digital pulse slows down until it matches a heartbeat) File closed. The Butcher says you’re better off as... parts. Un-spooling. Un-spooling. (The sound of a heavy vault door locking) Silence the Clatter. The past is heavy. (Static and wind fade out)
