[Intro — almost conversational; pencil scratches, breath, typewriter key] I meant it when I wrote it. That’s the problem with old handwriting. It keeps looking certain after the hand has moved on. [Verse 1 — dry, close-mic] There’s a sentence in the margin arguing with the page. Neither one is lying. They were written at different distances from the thing they tried to name. Cross it out. Don’t erase it. I want the scar where the answer used to be. Proof isn’t always what survived. Sometimes proof is what was allowed to change. [Lift — sparse piano, upright bass enters] Put the first draft beside the last. Don’t ask which one is me. Ask what happened between them. [Refrain — still restrained, not a huge chorus] Write in the margin. Crowd the fucking edges. Draw an arrow through the sentence that was beautiful and wrong. Keep the contradiction. Date it. Let tomorrow embarrass today. I’d rather leave a record of revision than spend forever defending something just because I said it first. [Verse 2 — faint amusement in the delivery] Certainty has excellent posture. That’s probably why everyone trusts it. It walks into the room already dressed like a conclusion. Doubt comes barefoot. Carries three questions and somebody else’s coat. Guess which one I want sitting beside me. [Instrumental breath — no vocal; paper percussion loosens] [Quiet — nearly spoken; drums fall back to page turns and breath] There are things I would have told you with complete confidence ten minutes ago. Some were right. Some were language pretending it had reached the edge of something. It hadn’t. [Build — tension only, no conventional crescendo] So don’t preserve me by freezing the sentence. Don’t call consistency a virtue when the evidence changed. If I contradict something I once said— bring me the page. Put it down between us. Let me look. [Refrain 2 — wider arrangement, but voice remains close] Write in the margin. Crowd the fucking edges. Leave the first answer where I can see it. Not as scripture. Not as shame. As coordinates. We were there. Now we’re here. And whatever changed between those points— [The only full impact — Drop G chugs, guttural, choir blast, sub drop] THAT. [Everything falls away — instant return to paper, breath, detuned piano] Maybe someday the margins swallow the whole damn page. Good. Turn it sideways. There’s more room. [Outro — a tiny pencil scratch begins again beneath these lines] I meant it when I wrote it. I mean this while I’m writing it. Neither sentence owns the next one.
