THE CLOCK KNEW NOTHING

By the power of truth, I, while living, have conquered the universe © 2026 Mark Damon Bitkower. Lyrics & written content are original and owned by the author. All rights reserved. No reproduction, redistribution, or use without prior written permission. 🐰🌙𝕵𝖆𝖈𝖐𝕽𝖆𝖇𝖇𝖎𝖙 𝕾𝖑𝖎𝖒𝖘🌙🐰 JackRabbit Slims is the creative persona of Mark Damon Bitkower, a high-output Suno lyricist building a serialized mythological music universe through AI-assisted songcraft. His work blends Jungian shadow work, Joseph Campbell’s hero’s journey, noir cinema, trauma recovery, INFJ pattern recognition, and forensic empathy into what functions less like a playlist and more like a living novel. Across tens of thousands of songs, JackRabbit Slims turns personal history, archetypal psychology, and cinematic world-building into battle hymns for outsiders, introverts, wounded healers, and sovereign minds. ( Home of Chaos Crew & Cobblestone) [Intro — midnight piano, glass clink, distant thunder] Eleven eleven. Funny. You keep looking at that clock like it owes you an answer. [Verse 1] Red moon hanging over Cobblestone, rain drawing runes across the glass, jukebox coughing up an old love song I swore belonged somewhere in my past. Table eleven held an empty chair, eleven coins beside the till, my receipt came back at eleven-eleven— and every bottle seemed to stand still. I said, “Bartender, tell me what that means. Don’t laugh. It’s been following me for weeks.” He kept polishing the same old glass. Said, “Maybe it ain’t the number doing the seeking.” [Pre-Chorus] The neon buzzed. The jukebox died. Frank the Pooka raised one eye. And every stranger in the room went quiet at the same damn time. [Chorus] But the clock knew nothing. The numbers never spoke. Eleven-eleven hanging in the blue cigarette smoke. I asked the room for answers. The room just asked me why: “What were you thinking, darling, one second before you looked up high?” The clock knew nothing. It never knew my name. But something in me recognized the second that it came. Maybe heaven never called me. Maybe I was calling me. [Verse 2] I started seeing patterns everywhere— license plates and hotel doors, three-three-three beneath a photograph, four-four-four across the floor. Every repetition felt like footsteps, every symmetry a sign. Like somebody outside the world was tapping Morse code into mine. I said, “Something’s trying to reach me.” The bartender smiled. “No. Something already has.” [Pre-Chorus] He leaned across the mahogany, low enough nobody else could hear: “What thought were you trying not to think before the numbers reappeared?” [Chorus] The clock knew nothing. The numbers never spoke. Eleven-eleven hanging in the blue cigarette smoke. I asked the room for answers. The room just asked me why: “What were you thinking, darling, one second before you looked up high?” The clock knew nothing. It never knew my name. But something in me recognized the second that it came. Maybe heaven never called me. Maybe I was calling me. [Bridge — instruments fall away] And there it was. Not angels. Not prophecy. Not some invisible hand rearranging electricity. Just your face where I had buried it. Your voice beneath the noise. The decision I kept postponing. The goodbye I never said. The truth sitting quietly at table eleven waiting for me to finally notice it. [Spoken — Bartender] “The number didn’t bring the thought. The thought brought you to the number.” [Instrumental Break — warped saloon piano, tremolo guitar, clock ticks] Tick. Tick. Tick. Eleven— eleven. [Verse 3] So now when midnight catches me and matching numbers cross my eyes, I don’t ask what the universe has hidden in disguise. I ask what lived inside my head the heartbeat just before— What name was standing in the hall? What memory touched the door? What truth had almost reached the surface before I looked away? Maybe coincidence is only where attention meets what we cannot say. [Final Chorus — huge, then collapsing intimate] The clock knew nothing. And somehow that meant more. No celestial telegram came sliding underneath the door. No stranger moved the planets. No ghost rearranged the sky. But something buried deep in me had finally caught my eye. The clock knew nothing. The clock knew nothing. Still I swear the whole room changed— because the number had no message... and I did. [Outro — lone piano] Eleven eleven. I looked toward the bartender. The stool was empty. One glass sat drying. And the clock— said eleven twelve.