[Verse 1] My catalog is every name that never was. My index is the hum inside the silent pause. I have the gospels, and the curses, and the recipes for dust. Bound in endless, perfect, random rows. I have your life story, true in every line. And ten billion others where you die at nine. **The total noise... is also the total text.** And my only task... is to find what comes next. [Chorus] **And in the storm of everything that could be said...** **I am the keeper of the quiet in my head.** **I am the curator of noise.** **I find a pattern in the static... and I weep for joy.** **Then I let it go... back into the void.** [Verse 2] Today I found a treatise on the wings of flies. In flawless Latin. Next to a child's screaming lies. I found your love letter, word for aching word. And right beside it, how the message was misheard. I have the secret of the universe. It's seven words long. It's also gibberish. I can't tell which one is wrong. [Chorus] **And in the storm of everything that could be said...** **I am the keeper of the quiet in my head.** **I am the curator of noise.** **I find a pattern in the static... and I weep for joy.** **Then I let it go... back into the void.** [Bridge] Sometimes... I don't look for meaning. I look for a beautiful accident. A line where the randomness aligns... and for a second, *sings*. That is enough. That is the gift. The single, dancing snowflake... in the drift. [Outro] The library is silent. The library is screaming. I am in the middle... ...curating... ...dreaming.
