[Intro — low, close, puzzled anger] The room is large enough. The window opens. There is air. So why, when I breathe, does something in me hit a wall? [Verse 1] Another rule for being human. Another sign: do not proceed. Another expert with a folder explaining what I need. Another sentence, stamped and filed, telling everyone their place. Another frightened piece of nonsense wearing an official face. And I stand there with my questions, apparently badly dressed, thinking: when did common madness become a formal test? [Pre-Chorus] It is not the ceiling. It is not the door. It is all the little certainties we cannot breathe around anymore. [Chorus — opens wide] It’s too tight. Not the room. Not the street. Not the night. It’s too tight for the soul when every answer comes already closed. Give me air. Give me doubt. Give me one horizon without instructions written out. It’s too tight. I need somewhere the mind can still look up. [Verse 2] Politics arrives at breakfast. Someone’s outrage takes the chair. Someone bans another something for the danger of fresh air. People shout about tomorrow as if tomorrow had agreed. Everybody has a doctrine. Very few have learned to read. Not the books. No. Each other. That particular lost art. We can catalogue the enemy before we recognise a heart. [Pre-Chorus] We know exactly who is guilty. We know exactly who must change. How reassuring to be certain in a universe this strange. [Chorus] It’s too tight. Not the room. Not the street. Not the night. It’s too tight for the soul when every answer comes already closed. Give me air. Give me doubt. Give me one horizon without instructions written out. It’s too tight. I need somewhere the mind can still look up. [Bridge — spoken-sung, stripped and tense] Here is what confuses me. We live under billions of stars. We understand almost nothing. We do not know why there is something instead of nothing. We do not know what consciousness is. We do not know what tomorrow will do. And yet somebody, somewhere, has found the confidence to forbid the wrong kind of hat. And somehow this is called certainty. [Verse 3] I want rooms with larger questions. I want tables built for doubt. I want people who can change their minds without being thrown out. I want laughter near the serious. I want mercy near the law. I want someone to say: “I don’t know” without having to apologise. I want knowledge without arrogance. Freedom without the pose. I want doors that stay like doors and do not turn into controls checking who is allowed inside, who has papers, who is pure. God, we make the world so narrow when we’re frightened and unsure. [Final Chorus — furious, then luminous] It’s too tight. Not the earth. Not the sky. Not the night. It’s too tight when frightened minds keep sealing every answer before the question comes to light. Give me air. Give me doubt. Give me one horizon no committee can rule out. It’s too tight. And yet above us there is space without an end. So open something. A door. A mind. A question. Let the human start again. [Outro — low, almost amused] The room is large enough. The window opens. There is air. Good. Now perhaps we could do something about ourselves.
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