[Intro — Spoken, dry baritone] Sunday. The system is stable. The kettle disagrees. [Verse 1] I’m mapping consciousness in twenty tabs, Rewriting God in Python scripts. You’re checking what the fridge still has, While steam escapes between your lips. I found a flaw in the human plan, A fatal glitch in the social machine. You found the towels I never ran, And asked what all my theories mean. [Pre-Chorus] The washing machine begins to spin, A tiny moon beneath the floor. I’m looking for the world within. You’re asking what we’re eating for. [Chorus] It’s the Sunday Protocol, One mind in the clouds, two feet on the floor. I’m trying to decode the soul, You’re making sure we’re alive by four. Forty thousand years beneath the skin, A thousand new apps, the same old deal. I’m asking where the future begins. You’re asking if the kettle’s real. [Verse 2] I have a model of the end, A spreadsheet for the age of man. You have a message from a friend, And a very practical dinner plan. My screen is full of rising graphs, Your hands are full of ordinary things. We laugh until the moment passes. The ancient mechanism quietly sings. [Bridge — Half-spoken, drums drop out] No meeting scheduled. No contract signed. No conscious decision Between your task and mine. A little bit of habit. A little bit of fear. A little bit of love That looks like keeping things here. [Final Chorus — Full band] It’s the Sunday Protocol, One mind in the clouds, two feet on the floor. We’re trying to decode the soul, While life keeps knocking at the door. Forty thousand years beneath the skin, A thousand new apps, the same old deal. The future waits for us to begin. The kettle whistles. The world is real. [Outro — Spoken] Save changes? No. Serve dinner.
