GADAL IDIUM [INTRO — 68 BPM. Tape hiss. Unresolved four-note acoustic figure; imperfect piano answers. Close, nearly spoken vocal.] VERSE I There were three coins on the windowsill, A moth asleep inside the shade, Somebody carved "I WAS HERE" Where all the morning people wait. An old man kept a letter closed For twenty-seven years and miles. A little boy misnamed his father— His father answered with a smile. Nothing anyone would notice. Nothing anyone would save. Little messengers collecting dust On their way from hand to grave. [Bass enters, wandering around the guitar figure.] REFRAIN Make a mountain of the dust, Make an ocean of the rain. Every little word we carry Comes through us with another name. We keep looking for the story Like it's somewhere else to see. Something small becomes enormous Passing quietly through me. VERSE II The coins bought bread one winter When the cupboards answered bare. That moth had bruised its little wings Against a light that wasn't there. The letter only said, "forgive me." Nothing clever, nothing grand. Twenty-seven years of thunder Folded smaller than a hand. And someone told me these small stories. Someone told that someone too. I don't know where they started. Maybe neither will you. PRE-CHORUS [Drums enter softly; Hammond blooms. Piper-like guitar harmonic appears.] Maybe words are only windows. Maybe names are only doors. Maybe every little messenger Leaves something at the shore. REFRAIN Make a mountain of the dust, Make an ocean of the rain. Take a thing too small for history— Let somebody speak its name. I am not the whole damn story. I'm a sentence passing through. Someone handed me a lantern. I am handing it to you. BRIDGE [Full psychedelic expansion. Bass turns melodic; drums widen. Opening motif passes guitar→piano→bass. Ghost voices: "three coins / one moth / forgive me / I was here."] What if I'm a single letter In a language still becoming? One small sound among a billion Leaning toward something? I don't need to be the sentence. I don't need to know the end. I just carry what was given Till it finds another hand. [Missing note enters. Opening motif finally resolves.] FINAL REFRAIN Make a mountain of the dust. Make an ocean of the rain. Every ordinary moment Carries more than it can name. There are universes hiding Where the smallest stories breathe. Every hand that turns the pages Leaves a fingerprint we read. I was never meant to own them. Only listen. Only bear. Someone whispered me a story. Now it's yours. Take care. [Everything cuts except piano.] CODA The coins are gone. The moth is dust. The letter changed some hands. Somewhere underneath a bus-seat scar, "I WAS HERE" still stands. [Original unresolved guitar figure returns.] And somewhere, someone reads it— then carries what they can. [Tape hiss. Pencil touches paper. Cut.]
