1% Exception ( Cobblestone Cut )

By the power of truth, I, while living, have conquered the universe © 2026 Mark Damon Bitkower. Lyrics & written content are original and owned by the author. All rights reserved. No reproduction, redistribution, or use without prior written permission. 🐰🌙𝕵𝖆𝖈𝖐𝕽𝖆𝖇𝖇𝖎𝖙 𝕾𝖑𝖎𝖒𝖘🌙🐰 [Verse 1] They thought I was quiet ’cause I was weak, just some pale-eyed introvert too tired to speak, staring in my coffee while the room performed, letting shallow weather-talk pass as warm. But silence was never surrender in me, it was pattern recognition at a brutal degree, an INFJ Sigma Haleoka, forged in flame, through family betrayal that rewired my name. I was raised where the knives wore a bloodline face, where love came coded with condition and disgrace, where every smile had a ledger, every hug had a fee, and the Judas kiss came home and sat at the table with me. So I studied the shadow till it answered back, Jung in the midnight, Freud on the rack, Nietzsche in thunder, Marcus steady as stone, Book of Five Rings in my marrow and bone. [Pre-Chorus] Now I walk through Los Angeles, 2026, seeing masks in the lighting, scripts in the tricks. They call me detached when I slip away clean, but I’m not antisocial—I’m allergic to the machine. [Chorus] I dislike ninety-nine percent of people I meet, the prefab souls with the recycled speech. Give me animals, writers, philosophers in the dark, give me minds with a wound and a dangerous spark. Give me one soul honest enough to bleed truth through— I don’t hate the world, I hate what most turn into. [Verse 2] I got that NPC radar, that X-ray curse, hear the same dead dialogue getting worse and worse. “Crazy weather,” “good vibes,” “hardly working today,” same algorithm gospel in a different display. I can see the ego shaking underneath the grin, the fear of being ordinary dressed up as skin. I can hear the hidden motive humming under each line, the status hunger, the hollowness, the need to be seen as divine. Like Dr. Ford building gods out of code and pain, I can see your architecture through the social stain. Maeve in the maze, Wyatt in the blood-red light, Jarvis with the soul, Ultron twisted by his sight. Chappie had more heart than half this city can claim, and Toby Ziegler still bled truth without needing fame. Swearengen knew filth and the cost of control, Shakespeare knew crowns never sanctified the soul. [Verse 3] What exhausts me ain’t struggle, and it ain’t human scars, it’s the ones who want saviors but won’t walk that far. They bring me their chaos, I map out the cure, hand them the blueprint clean, exact, and pure. Then they run back to the fire, to the lie, to the ache, to the same dumb collapse they’re addicted to making. That’s when the coldness comes in, quiet and exact— I don’t yell, I just withdraw and never come back. And conformity? Hell, to me it’s decay, a moral surrender dressed up as play-it-safe gray. I’d respect a dangerous mind with a rigorously built creed before I’d trust one more coward who just follows the feed. And all that fake compassion for applause and clout, that saint-costume narcissism parading itself about— I’d rather break bread with an honest jerk in the rain than a polished fraud monetizing pain. [Bridge] So I go where the real still breathes without a mask— dogs, horses, creatures never performing a task, writers with scars, thinkers who stare into night, people who can say, “I was wrong,” and still stand upright. That’s the one percent. That’s the rare exemption. The ones who don’t need a crowd to invent them. The ones who own their darkness, don’t outsource their spine, don’t switch their convictions for a seat at the shrine. Leonardo in the fever sketching heaven through war, Hemingway with the wound, Kipling at the law, Musashi in stillness, Marcus holding the line— those are the minds I let into mine. [Final Chorus] I dislike ninety-nine percent of people I meet, all the empty costumes and the copied speech. Give me animals, outcasts, philosophers in the dark, give me those rare few with an unmarketed heart. Give me one soul honest enough to bleed truth through— I don’t hate humanity, I hate what most turn into. [Outro] So let the crowd keep smiling in their secondhand skin, I was forged through betrayal—I don’t fold, I don’t bend. My circle stays small, private, earned, and true. That isn’t a flaw. That’s wisdom. That’s survival. That’s who.