[Intro] (Low, subsonic hum. The sound of a single piano string being scraped with a fingernail. Long, breathing silences.) [Verse 1] The water left its heavy gift. The room is full of other places. Shale from the mountain, clay from the bank, all leveled in the corner. The floor is a thick, grey map where the current lost its breath. The wood is not wood anymore. It is a bed. [Pre-Chorus] (A dry, clicking percussion—like seeds hitting stone) The hinge is fused. The glass is frosted. The rust is a velvet skin. [Chorus] It is a green geography. The light is filtered through the leaf. The walls are the same distance apart. The weight is in the root now. No reach. No grip. The measurement of the room is the measurement of the bloom. [Verse 2] I am the vine on the orange pin. I feel the grain of the grit. I drink the river’s debt through the cracks in the mud. The chair is a trellis. The table is a mound. The name that leaked is the soil for the fungi. [Pre-Chorus] The axis is still. The air is damp. The pulse is the size of a seed. [Bridge] (Sound of wood softly splintering under the pressure of a root) The joist is soft. The joist is sweet. One, two, three, four. The fracture is a burrow. The floorboards are a forest. The ceiling is a memory. The house is a channel that finally closed. [Final Chorus] (Fuller sound—layered drones, organic and thick) It isn't ascent. It isn't defeat. It’s the green life rising on unsteady feet. (All instruments drop to a single, pulsing bass note) No mastery. No claim. Just proportion taking a name. [Outro] (The sound of wind through leaves inside a room) High tide. Ebb. Ground instead.
