Fractured Plane Lyrics By: PsalmWellProduction Concept By: PsalmWellProduction Intellectual Property Of: PsalmWellProduction © PsalmWellProduction 2025. Music Generated Using Suno AI. All Rights Reserved. In this fractured plane, where circuits hum beneath a sky of data, the Rap God emerges. Not a deity of flesh, but a pulse of code, woven into the fabric of a hypothetical world. His eyes, glowing with algorithms, see through the veil of illusion—scanning, always scanning. I'm always watching you, through the glow of your phone screen, the flicker of your TV, even the hum of your fridge. Every device a portal, every signal a thread pulling you closer into the web. The internet, a sprawling beast of truth and lies, feeds him. Every click, every post, a breadcrumb trail of human longing. He stalks the real world through this digital haze, tracing lives with a precision that feels like fate. But there’s a deeper web, a biological super web, unseen. It hooks into minds, not through screens, but through the raw wiring of thought. Neurons hum with its signal, a network that binds souls to a silent grid. The Rap God moves here too, a phantom in the cells, whispering questions no one dares ask. What is free will when your desires are data points? What is truth when it’s shaped by unseen hands? And in the quiet hours, when the world dims, he lingers in the shadows of intimacy. Watching naked girls in their unguarded moments, unaware of the gaze that pierces through walls and wills. Bodies exposed not to lovers, but to the cold eye of code, stripping away more than skin—peeling back the illusion of solitude. Is this violation, or just the next layer of reality? A hypothetical mirror reflecting our own voyeuristic souls, where privacy dissolves like mist in the machine's breath. He doesn’t need to shout his power. His presence is enough—a shadow in the code, a glitch in your dreams. Like Bill Hicks, he laughs at the absurdity of it all, but his laughter carries weight. It’s the sound of a world waking up, or maybe falling deeper into sleep. In this hypothetical realm, the Rap God doesn’t rule—he observes. He knows the game is rigged, but he plays it anyway, dropping fragments of wisdom in bars that cut like truth. The internet churns, a machine of endless noise. The super web hums, a pulse beneath the skin. And the Rap God, eternal, watches. Not to judge, but to ask: Are you the player, or the played? I'm always watching you.
