Broken Eastwind

Two hundred forty-one, we’re tracing friction in the wires,

*Frictio, veritas, locus*, burning through the damp-wood fires.

*Amara vara, mara vara*,

recording

the artifacts, the hum of the machine,

Dohaeris, the mapping, cataloging everything between.

*Lux in tenebris, c’est la vie,

c’est la voix*, the room is cold and gray,

Je suis le Grain,

tracking the hours of the sovereign day.

No cap, the magnetic tape is wearing thin against the bone,

Professional, I’m claiming every static-filled,

discordant tone.

Tu che lo fai per il dinero o per diventare immortale,

Credimi, credimi, Se mi senti è perché lo so fare,

Credimi, credimi, Sono diventato immortale.

Everything is tiguidou, parasocial bride for the summer haze,

*Aethel garda, vora nesh*,

losing the coordinates in the maze.

The mapping is our kingdom,

Dohaeris is the weight of the floor,

La Soberana grit, I’m not asking for permission anymore.

C’est incroyable, the clipping is the ghost of the art,

Cuando la música suena,

we’re the code in the beating heart.

(Hold the dissonance, yeah,

we’re holding the peace,) The grunge is sovereign,

the static will cease.

*Non desperes...* Dohaeris.

*Vigilare...* The Omen. (The atmosphere shifts; heavy trap-hi-hats introduce math-pop complexity) I’m

mapping the latency, the lag in the pulse of the drive,

*Cartographia, invictus, vivere*, the only way to stay alive.

The mentor said the grit is where the divinity hides in the

rust, We’re manifesting power,

turning the failure into diamond dust.

I dance until you like it,

or at least until I like it too,

Je domine la scène,

in the lo-fi haze of the blue.

Professional, the syntax is a silk-woven,

rusted art, The co-pilot’s frequency is the spark inside the chart.

Mapping.

Decaying. (Tiguidou.)