[[Intro] [Deep sub drone + loud clock ticking + tape hiss] [Male – low, cold] Welcome… To the perfect math of your life. [Female – distant] Forty-five… Forty-five… Ten… [Both – whispered] Work. Sleep. Repeat. [Heavy 808 bounce drops] [Verse 1 – Male] Forty-five percent is sold to the machine, Chasing after paper, living through a screen. Forty-five percent is lost inside the deep, Paralyzed in shadows, locked inside of sleep. Ninety percent of you is bought, paid, and done, Spun around the axis of a dying sun. You polish the container, feed the master’s plan, A perfectly divided, calculated man. [Pre-Chorus – Male] Forty-five to build their wall. Forty-five to sleep through it all. But the last ten percent… Is where the rules start to bend. Is it enough… To break the trend? [Chorus – Male + Female – heavy bounce] 45… 45… 10… Forty-five to work. Forty-five to rest. Only ten percent… To pass the final test. 45… 45… 10… The body gets the labor, the body gets the bed, But the ten percent is sparking in your head. Will you just survive… Or will you create? Ten percent of time… To rewrite your fate. [Verse 2 – Male + Female layers] The matrix takes the morning, the matrix takes the night, It leaves you with a fraction to find your inner light. In forty-five you sweat, in forty-five you blind, But in the final ten, you reclaim your own mind. They own your daylight, they own your dreams, They sew your existence straight into the seams. But they can’t touch the spark, they can’t hold the pen, When you claim the power… of the final ten. [Bridge – Beat almost stops, only heavy sub-bass] [Female – cold whisper] Forty-five percent… you are a slave. Forty-five percent… you are in the cave. What do you do… with the piece you saved? [Beat cuts – silence] [Male – low, direct] Manifest... Or go to the dark grave. [Beat explodes back] [Final Chorus – Maximum energy] 45… 45… 10… Forty-five to work! Forty-five to rest! Take the final ten… Rip the heart from the chest! Another worker in the day, another sleeper in the night, But the ten percent is rising up to fight. Don’t just feed the mold, don’t just mimic them, The universe is waiting… On the final ten. [Outro] [Clock ticking slows down] [Female – distant] Ninety percent… belongs to the dust… [Male – cold] The ten percent… Is what we trust. [Both – whispered] Create… Don't die a copy. [Final heavy 808 hit + silence]
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