This is not music. This is protocol. Assembly protocol. Maternity Ward. The Shop. Raw material intake. Wrist tag. Serial code. Mother — no fuss. There is no "you" here. No "I". Only batch. Only threading. Childhood — sanding. School — the press. Pushes from above. Grinds into the ground. A blank. Standard cut. A blank. A blank. Crammed into the mold. Human Blank. Conditioning! "Be like everyone!" "Follow the format!" Your inner beast? A defect. Feelings? Sawdust. Ambitions? Scrap. The final product — a profile. Sterile. Convenient. But then — a fresh batch. A Soulful Socrates. Firmware — standard issue. Growls about freedom, posting a quote. Rips up anchors to dock at the harbor. But listen here. Your rebellion — a script. The algorithm "for those against the grain". You didn't break free. You're a pressure release valve. Your uniqueness — a tag. A hashtag — #againstall. The system digested you through the Dept. of Personal Re-Volts. Your scream — lossless. Against a backdrop of beat. Your scars — seams. A worn-out hiss. You — into the catalog. Packed. Ready. Section "Protest". Shelf "Premium". SKU three-four. Model — Nonconformist! Bumper sticker. Car — on loan. Apartment — for rent. You know what's truly terrifying? Not that they cut us to shape. But that we ourselves... ...pick up the knife. Line up, animals. Bare your necks. The milling ritual. And then... The asphalt paver. Rolled us flat. Smooth. Even. Faceless. ---
