The Grain Elevator Position

[Intro: A terrifyingly low Moog synthesizer drone rumbles the floorboards. Suddenly, a flurry of woodwinds—flutes and oboes—flutter wildly across the stereo field, sounding like a flock of startled starlings. A single orchestral chime rings out.] [Verse 1: The vocals enter, soaring in a breathy, ethereal head voice. The harp plucks a strange, circular melody.] There are seven blind kings standing shoulder to shoulder. Shoulder to shoulder. With concrete ribs and crowns of tin. They have swallowed the sun, they are growing colder. Growing colder. Waiting for the golden sacrifice to begin. Waiting to begin. [Pre-Chorus: The woodwinds swirl faster, creating a sense of vertigo. The drone gets louder. The vocals become a hypnotic, rhythmic chant.] The diesel trucks are lining up the nave. Pouring the summer into the open grave. The dust is rising like frankincense and myrrh. The horizon is a blur. The horizon is a blur. [Chorus: The track explodes with surreal grandeur. The woodwinds swell into a massive, major-key orchestral wave. The chimes crash. The vocals are pushed to their absolute dramatic peak, utilizing abstract, spatial imagery.] A hollow bone suspended in the static! Suspended in the static! The chalk-white needle threading through the blue! Threading through the blue! The geometry is swallowing the center of the field, A vertical erasure that the horizon passes through! Passes through! Oh, the gravity inverses when you stand beneath the line. Stand beneath the line. And the shadow is the only thing we leave behind. [Verse 2: The orchestral wave vanishes instantly. We are left with just the low Moog drone and the plucked harp. The vocals return to a conspiratorial, hushed whisper.] They don't have eyes, but they watch the weather. Watch the weather. They don't have lungs, but they breathe the chaff. We sew the miles of the earth together, Just to hear the concrete stomach laugh. Hear the stomach laugh. Mmm... [Pre-Chorus: The woodwinds return, trilling and fluttering chaotically.] The diesel trucks are lining up the nave. Pouring the summer into the open grave. The dust is rising like frankincense and myrrh. The horizon is a blur. The horizon is a blur. [Chorus: Maximum volume and dizziness. The Moog drone rumbles violently beneath the beautiful, soaring orchestral instruments.] A hollow bone suspended in the static! Suspended in the static! The chalk-white needle threading through the blue! Threading through the blue! The geometry is swallowing the center of the field, A vertical erasure that the horizon passes through! Passes through! Oh, the gravity inverses when you stand beneath the line. Stand beneath the line. And the shadow is the only thing we leave behind. [Bridge: The music shifts into a strange, waltzing time signature. The harp and flutes play a delicate, unsettling lullaby. The vocals stretch out, dreamy and disconnected.] If you stare at the tops when the clouds are moving... When the clouds are moving... They look like they are walking away. They look like they are launching into the dark. Leaving the dirt to decay. Leaving the dirt. Leaving the dirt. [Outro: The orchestral instruments slowly peel away one by one, leaving only the deep, rumbling Moog synthesizer. The single vocal floats above it, sighing into the void.] Blind kings. Blind kings. Eating the gold. Eating the gold. [A final chime rings out and decays over ten seconds. The synth fades into darkness.]