The city's asleep, but the line is still humming, A frequency deep, a prediction of what is coming. I trace the vibrations from the asphalt below, It's a low, grinding whisper, a secret only we know. Every pavement crack holds a breath that was held too long, A silent promise where everything went wrong (wrong...) I see the shadows lengthen, they're not just from the light..., They're drawn by the power of the endless night... Feel the spectral line, it runs right through your head, It’s the rhythm of the fear, the pact that was made by the dead. This low-end pressure, a coil that grips and strains, The only true anchor in these phantom rains. Walk past the windows, they're showing distorted scenes, Of futures they're selling, of what survival means. But I just follow the thunder that travels through the floor, The pulse of the planet that knocks on every door. They say the signal is lost, they say the wires are down, But the bass speaks the truth to the lonely souls in town, in Town. Don't look for meaning in the static or the glare, It's buried deeper than the wishes that you wear. It's in the sub-zero echo, a chill you can't outrun, The low-frequency hum of a battle never won (never won, never won, never won) Feel the spectral line, it runs right through your head, It’s the rhythm of the fear, the pact that was made by the dead. This low-end pressure, a coil that grips and strains, The only true anchor in these phantom rains... "The only true anchor in these phantom rains..."
