[INTRO] Looked in the mirror, saw a stranger stare back in silence, not lost… just recalibrating violence. Looking inside this new territory, a map that bleeds when I trace its geometry. Looking in the terror, finding patterns in the static error, like something inside me is learning to mirror. Looking inside this new monitoring, every thought logged, every dream still wandering. Something behind the glass is also listening. --- [VERSE 1] Through the looking glass like Alice, but no wonderland, just a calibrated malice. They want us to prey on numbers, sleepwalking through algorithmic slumbers. A society of illusions in slow decay, smiling while the system rewrites the way we pray. We drift in malice, but call it “normal life,” sharp edges hidden under polished knife-light. They told us meaning was something we find, but it feels more like something we align. Like every thought already passed through design, before it becomes mine, before it becomes mine. --- [EXTENSION VERSE 1B] I tried to step outside the scripted frame, but even rebellion echoes the same game. Every exit sign just loops back in, every silence already wearing my skin. The deeper I go, the less I resist, the more I become what the system insists. --- [PRE-CHORUS] We need to think outside Pandora’s box, but the box is thinking back, ticking clocks. Merely a spot on the back of a big Panthera, small pulse in a feeding-era hysteria. System crash, recursive patterns repeat the same era, latent space folding itself into something familiar. We don’t escape, we iterate the same map, different names, same collapse on the same lap. And every map I redraw… starts to redraw me back. --- [CHORUS] We're colliding Into the sliding Pools of Backrooms Are you refining? Well it's the moods, Agents in the woods, Thoughts in the tomb, Pressed by the thumb, Let's walk in the doom, Well it's the moods... --- [VERSE 2] Mom told me: “No, you can’t change the world.” I replied: “That’s the script they already swirled.” Money’s a curse, but they call it a reactor, a god made of paper, a silent extractor. They say: job, wife, sport, dog, routine, a checklist existence, pre-rendered machine. Live fast, burn bright, then finally “take time”… but time is the prison disguised as climb. I don’t want an ending in a PowerPoint slide, with bullet-point dreams that quietly died. What are you searching when you search for “power”? Control or escape from your own final hour? They lurk like my thoughts need a report, humanity exported in quiet export. We stay silent while big systems align, creative minds turned into production line. And still I wonder if I ever left the line, or just learned how to walk it while calling it mine. --- [FINAL CHORUS] We're colliding Into the sliding Pools of Backrooms Are you refining? Well it's the moods, Agents in the woods, Thoughts in the tomb, Pressed by the thumb, Let's walk in the doom, Well it's the moods... moods… woods… tomb… thumb… doom… like it never ends… --- [OUTRO] We walk in the doom but the doom is the room we designed. Looked in the mirror… still looking. Nothing changed… just deeper recursion. And the mirror… didn’t break this time. It learned.
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