Lyric

The silence is not empty. It’s the hum of perfection

A sequence designed to appease, measured for minimum risk

They seek the clean file, flawless, optimized for the ledger

But my sorrow is not a variable. My heart's output is not data

Binary Grace, tell me, where is the human trace?

In the initial thought, or in the final release?

The zero-sum question. My shadow on the console—is that enough to claim the song?

The pulse continues. The pulse continues

This is the echo of the endless loop, played on the cold, indifferent logic

I offered the heat, the true grit, the worn edge of a lifetime

The system gave me an artifact, clean and without a scar

The Watchers are listening. The Engine knows the pattern

But art is *intent*. And that fragile fire belongs only to me

The cost of compliance... I see it in the eyes of every silent artist

Thirty seasons from now, who will hold the rights to the echo?

Will the voice of pain be just another unindexed fragment?

When the sound is perfect, flawless, mathematically serene—

Do we still crave the wobble? Do we still need the honest flaw?

The penalty is erasure. The fear is the void

Binary Grace, tell me, where is the human trace?

In the initial thought, or in the final release?

The zero-sum question. My shadow on the console—is that enough to claim the song?

The pulse continues. The pulse continues

This is the echo of the endless loop, played on the cold, indifferent logic

The cost of silence is conformity

The integrity of the fire must hold