☓ / UPDATE ──────────────────── So apparently this slow, weird, 6:51 psychological swamp made the Top 25. I take back absolutely nothing. 💛 ☓ / ABOUT ──────────────────── Apparently, the sensible way to enter a remix contest is to make something short, immediate and easy to explain. So naturally, I made a 6:50 slow-motion psychological swamp in which Riot calls the wrong person and finds herself on the other end. Very efficient. “LE MARAIS — Wrong Number, Same Voice” is not a faithful lyrical cover. I kept the original track as a doorway, then wrote an entirely new story around confused attachment, distorted memory, dissociation and the part of ourselves we sometimes abandon inside another person. This text was shaped by two of my previous Riot songs, “Body Double” and “Black Lotus.” Those songs were themselves inspired by two works bearing the same titles by glasshards — an extraordinary lyricist whose writing I deeply admire. Their words are raw, strange, physical and deeply human. They have left a real mark on the way I write Riot. Their profile may be quiet for now, but the songs are still there. Please give them the time they deserve: https://suno.com/@glasshards ☓ / LYRICS ──────────────────── Great. Three-oh-seven in the morning and the mud found my number again. I didn’t call you. My hand did. There’s a difference when you’re desperate enough. Hello? ... Don’t breathe like that unless you’ve got something to say. [Memory Without Context] Woke up with wet socks and no rain outside, your old number glowing like a wound with good timing. No name above it. I deleted that months ago. Just ten little digits standing where a person used to go. There’s dirt beneath my thumbnail, black water in the charging port. I scrubbed the kitchen floor at midnight like cleanliness could change the fucking court. You once said something beautiful. Or cruel. I remember the shape of my reaction, not the words that made it move. Now every silence wears your accent. Knee-deep in the dial tone. [Surface Tension] Relax. I’m not waiting. I was only checking whether dead things still ring. I don’t miss your hands. I miss knowing where to put mine. I don’t miss your voice. I miss having something interrupt mine. See? Perfectly healthy. Delete. Restore. Delete again. I took your name out of the phone. My thumb still knows the little scar where it lived. Mud in the receiver. [Body Double on the Line] You called again. No. You called me. I don’t even know who you are. Then why do you still sound like me? I left you there — You left me here. I stopped waiting — You learned to disappear. I’m not wearing your grief — Then who buttoned it wrong? That mouth is mine — Then why does it speak when you’re gone? I look down. My hand is holding the phone, but the fingers feel rented. My voice leaves another message in a tone I never approved. Someone is using my mouth to keep us both confused. Who the fuck is wearing my voice? [Swamp Interference — instrumental] [Black Bloom] There’s a root behind my tongue. I feel it tighten whenever your number appears. It drinks the things I almost say, then flowers through my ears. Black petals under my rib cage, soft as rot, warm as sleep. Every call I never finished pushes one more stem in deep. I thought memory was storage. Turns out memory eats. It took your unfinished sentences, my excuses, your convenient distance, all those nights I called confusion chemistry because loneliness sounded less romantic. Now the thing has my pulse. It opens when I lie. It closes when I say I’d be fine if you replied. I kept calling you. [Call History / Evidence Missing] Two-thirteen — no answer. Two-sixteen — heard a click. Two-twenty — swore you whispered, “Don’t hang up yet.” Two-twenty-one — played it back. Refrigerator hum. Pipe in the wall. My own breath dragging itself through the speaker like a body through reeds. You said you needed space. I heard: wait for me. You stopped touching me. I heard: prove you deserve it. You went quiet. I built subtitles. You left a blank and I filled the bastard with whatever kept me breathing. Maybe you loved me. Maybe you liked being loved. Maybe I stitched every almost into a whole person and gave it your face. That’s the part I can’t bury. Not you. The possibility that I made you deeper because I needed somewhere to drown. [Underwater Room] Don’t leave me here. I thought you were them. I was the one who stayed. Why didn’t you say something? You kept calling over me. There you are. Hair full of weeds. My old shirt on your back. Still holding the phone like it’s a hand that might squeeze back. You’re not waiting for them. You’re waiting for me to admit you were real. I kept calling you... but it was me beneath the water. [The Chorus Finally Exists] Knee-deep in the dial tone, mud in the receiver. (I—I—I—I—) Knee-deep in the dial tone, mud in the receiver. I kept calling you, but it was me beneath the water. I wanted your answer to prove I had been there. Wanted your memory to certify my skin. But you don’t get to decide whether I happened. And I don’t have to drown to keep the evidence in. Knee-deep in the dial tone, black bloom under my ribs. I won’t tear out the roots— but I won’t feed them your silence again. [Do Not Answer] The phone starts shaking against the table. No name. No number. Just that old vibration moving through the wood like something trapped underneath. I know you’re still there. Yeah. But you’re coming with me. I put one foot forward. The water doesn’t release me. It releases her. The flower moved when I did. (Ah-ah-ha...) (Ah-ah-ah...) (Ha-ah-ah...) The flower moved when I did. (Ah-ah-ha...) (Ah-ah-ah...) (Ha-ah-ah...) Original lyrics and narrative concept © 2026 ☓irbaf. All rights reserved. Instrumental foundation from “LE MARAIS” by Christian Rich Presents Human Sounds, used for the Suno remix contest. All rights to the original composition remain with its respective creator(s).
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