[INTRO — JOHNNY, spoken through filthy pirate-radio distortion] Twelve fucking days. [TWITCH, distant] Eleven and change. [JOHNNY] Nobody likes a pedant, Twitch. [TWITCH] Nobody likes you, Dogs. [COUNT-IN — BOTH] ONE! TWO! ONE-TWO-THREE-FOUR! [VERSE 1 — TWITCH, fast clipped vocal] Black ship crawling through a yellow line, Dead codes answering from another time, Six bad pixels and a miner swears He saw the Sparrow burning there. Every spook draws lines across the stars, Every journalist invents memoirs, Everybody wants the resurrection— Nobody's got a fucking connection. [JOHNNY — shouted interruption] Maybe the bloody thing's BROKE! [TWITCH] Magnificent analysis, Dogs. [PRE-CHORUS — alternating] TWITCH: Maps aren't motives! JOHNNY: Smoke isn't proof! TWITCH: Dead authentication— JOHNNY: Still ain't truth! TWITCH: You want a legend— JOHNNY: I want a beer! BOTH: TWELVE DAYS SILENT AND SHE'S STILL FUCKING HERE! [CHORUS — BOTH, huge gang-vocal punk hook] TWELVE DAYS OF SILENCE! No statement! No feed! No fucking content For the mouths you have to feed! TWELVE DAYS OF SILENCE! Let the hungry networks stare— Maybe getting somewhere matters More than proving you were there! HEY! HEY! No masters! HEY! HEY! No myth! HEY! HEY! No audience owns this! [VERSE 2 — JOHNNY, rougher half-sung lead] Maybe she's bleeding, maybe she's asleep, Maybe dead machinery don't travel cheap, Maybe every lawyer from Caille to Luminaire Is billing by the hour for the fucking air. Maybe Sparrow knows her hand, Maybe Sparrow doesn't understand, Fifteen years sleeping round a dying sun— You wake an old warship, see if the bastard runs. [TWITCH — interruption] That's almost intelligent. [JOHNNY] Fuck off. [VERSE 3 — TWITCH, drums become more relentless] Nineteen years telling yourself she's dead, Nineteen years building shrines inside your head, Songs for the ghost, glass for the flame, Then the dead girl answers— I'M HERE. No metaphor. No archive trick. No clone theology To make it fit. She burned down heaven, bought the street, Put revolution underneath her feet— And somewhere out beyond the feeds A wounded ship just— [BAND CUTS OUT] —breathes. [JOHNNY — spoken into silence] Broken emotional jump drive. [TWITCH] ...that is the stupidest thing you've ever said. [JOHNNY] But you understood it. [TWITCH] Unfortunately. [DRUMSTICKS — FOUR COUNT] [FINAL CHORUS — BOTH, faster, ragged, triumphant] TWELVE DAYS OF SILENCE! Let the fucking networks choke! You don't owe the world a signal, You don't owe the world a quote! TWELVE DAYS OF SILENCE! No performance! No parade! Some things happen out of sight And don't improve because they're displayed! TWELVE DAYS OF SILENCE! No masters! GANG: NO MASTERS! No owners! GANG: NO OWNERS! No algorithm gets to tell you When the private becomes public! [BREAKDOWN — TWITCH & JOHNNY trading lines] TWITCH: If she wanted attention— JOHNNY: She'd fucking have it! TWITCH: If she wanted spectacle— JOHNNY: She knows the habit! TWITCH: One word from Sparrow— JOHNNY: And the whole cluster stares! TWITCH: But sometimes you don't broadcast— JOHNNY: Just because somebody cares! [FINAL REFRAIN — BOTH, instruments climbing] She's not chasing. She's not winning. She's not selling you the meaning. There is a ship. There is a direction. There is somebody waiting. GETTING THERE IS ENOUGH. GETTING THERE IS ENOUGH. GETTING THERE IS ENOUGH. [OUTRO — collapsing feedback] JOHNNY: Still reckon it's the jump drive. TWITCH: It's not the fucking jump drive. JOHNNY: We'll see. TWITCH: We literally won't. [feedback / laughter / transmitter abruptly disconnects]
