[start] [Intro: Sparse ambient guitar swells, soft bass counterpoint, and minimal brushed snare; atmosphere dim and intimate] [Verse 1] Rented room, the coffee’s cold, Cosmic truths to empty souls. They came for bagels, stayed to stare, Hearing madness — no prophet there. [Verse 2] Maxed my cards to print the proof, A thousand pages, no living truth. Boxes stacked like monuments to waste, While the world spins on, blind to fate. [Chorus: Bass steps forward, weaving melodic counterlines; vocals tremble and layer in quiet harmony] Preaching to the dust and air, Singing endings no one cares. The vision’s mine, the truth’s my own, Phone stays silent, nobody home. Just my echo coming back — numb. [Instrumental interlude: Guitar harmonics drift over 7/8 rhythm; bass ascends melodically then drops to root] [Verse 3] Every prophet’s crazy first, right? Every truth sounds mad in light. This failure means they’re unprepared, Too afraid to see what’s there. [Bridge: Percussion withdraws; bass sustains long harmonic tones while guitar delay builds a shimmering wall] Something’s shifting into rage, Searching for a name to blame this cage. Won’t be laughed at anymore, They’ll listen now — I’ll settle the score. [Outro: Fading reversed guitar textures, heartbeat bass pulses; last vocal phrase echoes into silence] [end]
