Dead on arrival. Again. By design, not revival. Mud in my mouth, cold in my file. I know this mile. No holy arc, just a grind through the dark. Borrowed breath, bitten bark, and a name that won't spark. Say the word, drag me back. I'm the glitch in the stack. I don't beg, I just track what they take, what I lack. I die, I wake, I load again. (Load again) No grand salvation, no shining dawn. (Shining dawn) If this world wants me, it gets the bruise. I keep on going because I can't refuse. I die, I wake, I load again. (Load again) Quest text, grave text. Every command leaves a hex. I do what's next, with a grin in my chest. Bones in the clerk's light, necromancer's leash tight. Same old blight, new bite— and still I bite back. No purpose. No mercy. Just systems and hunger and dirty old circuitry. If there's a meaning, it's buried too deep for the dead to keep. I die, I wake, I load again. (Load again) No grand salvation, no shining dawn. (Shining dawn) If this world wants me, it gets the bruise. I keep on going because I can't refuse. I die, I wake, I load again. (Load again) "Stay a while and listen"? No. I'd rather the archaeologists find nothing but the hole. Twat.
