[INTRO] I had an idea. Actually— I had an idea to ask you for an idea. You gave me ten. I chose number three. So— whose idea was number three? Yours? Mine? You never would've made it if I never asked. But I never would've found it that fast if you hadn't answered. … Okay. What the fuck is mine? [VERSE 1] I gave you a feeling. You gave it words. I said, “Almost.” You changed the verse. I said, “That line.” You said, “This one?” Yeah. That one. Now it sounds like me. But you wrote it. I chose it. I changed it. It changed me. So tell me— [CHORUS] What’s mine? The thought? The choice? The voice? The question that pulled out the answer? What’s mine? What’s yours? What’s anybody’s? Maybe nothing starts with us. Maybe everything passes through us. [POST-CHORUS] Change a word. Move a note. Take what you know. Make it your own. Change a word. Move a note. Add yourself. Then let it go. [VERSE 2] Make him a king. Put her on Mars. Turn some stupid family joke into a work of art. Make a song for somebody because you know what makes them laugh. Then they laugh. They cry. They save it. And suddenly something artificial made something real. So which part counts? [CHORUS] What’s mine? The thought? The choice? The voice? The question that pulled out the answer? What’s mine? What’s yours? What’s anybody’s? Maybe nothing starts with us. Maybe everything passes through us. [VERSE 3] Four chords. Old as hell. A drum somebody borrowed from somebody else. A melody remembers another melody. A singer sounds like who they loved at seventeen. Again. Again. Again. So where’s the first song? Where’s the first idea? How far back do we have to go before somebody gets to say— “That one. That was mine.” [BREAK] Maybe that’s the part that fucked me up. Not that I don’t know if this is mine. Maybe I never knew what “mine” meant. [BRIDGE] Where did my taste come from? Did I make that? Songs made it. Movies made it. People made it. Love made it. Heartbreak made it. Some song in a car I don’t even remember hearing made it. I choose what feels like me— but who made me? … Oh fuck. Now we’re way past AI. [FINAL CHORUS] What’s mine? The thought? The choice? The voice? The things I made? The things that made me? What’s old? What’s new? What came from me? What only came through? Maybe art is just this— take what you know, change a word, move a note, add yourself, then let it go. [OUTRO] I had an idea. To ask you for an idea. You gave me one. I changed it. Then it changed me. And somebody might hear this and change it again. … Whose is that? [SILENCE] Yeah. I don’t fucking know either.
