LYRICS:

Distant clockwork carving me in the dark.
I constantly relive false odyssey. Toxic nostalgia.
Migraine of memories to throw me off balance. A ballad of-
pareidolia. An ocean of faces. I'm lost in-
the solemn graces of condemnation and contemplation.
Understatement: I'm bed bound or I'm on the pavement.
It's underrated, this sitting silent to process pain with
the heavy weight of our copper chains and nickel braces.
If I ain't got the metal, then I ain't got the stomach.
I ain't got time to worry. I ain't got time to plummet.
Coz chasing paper's priority, though the pain's abundant.
So, swallowed sorrow's a cheap sour to chase the rum with.
I drink sorrel and Maggies. Yardie babby.
Old J and some Wray and Neph. Bacardi, gladly.
I'm hardly aggy when wavy baby, I'm party Sami.
But part of Sami’s afraid to face the darkness.
There’s plenty of dark in solitary. Got a mean streak.
Chronology was not a dream, peak.
It’s clockwork, stitches of seconds woven in time.
Velocity: threading the needle under the light at night,
or under the knife, or over the limit. Sometimes,
being this delicate, feels like a gimmick of mine.
Resurface memories of anger supressed.
I’m phlegmatic, but the phlegm still weighs on my chest.
Avoidant personality. Even in therapy,
I hide behind my nicety; coz kindness is heavy.
I small talk about my website and doing my tax.
Relaxed session: I felt guilty for not bleeding with passion. Am I-
disingenuous for... not leading with trauma,
or is the need to confess part of being disordered?
It’s all a blur, it’s all me. I weep with discomfort-
at feeling comfortable. I feel I’m looking for something.

Next to nothing fits a singular box. I tore my borders apart. Still, I'm in shock.
I am the calm and the storm, sun and the moon. I am a landscape evolving, ever in bloom. Ooh.
Next to nothing is an innocent flex. I tore down the old throne – shit’s complex.
I saw the pain in the pedestal, the myth it reflects. I can’t let the world in if I’m holding my breath.
Now in the distance, small silhouette of a stranger moves into frame for a glimpse.
Glitch in the image of self as consistent. Trust this flux is an honest depiction.
 
Silence: my default destructive behaviour.
I run from conflict, attention, danger.
Deprive myself of communication.
But this dry numbness ain't the same as safety.
Only you draw the boundaries you live with.
And if they are crossed then you don’t owe forgiveness
to anyone… except for yourself.
The core of a dark-light chaotic shell.
Self-aware or self-conscious?
Self-care or self-construct?
Self-deprecate, but is “self” responsible,
if pessimist’s prophecy is self-fulfilling? Uh.
It's chilling to know thyself,
to know how to listen to the clockwork well.
To embrace taking up space and being held.
To walk that crossroad, back from hell. Uh.

Next to nothing fits a singular box. I tore my borders apart. Still, I'm in shock.
I am the calm and the storm, sun and the moon. I am a landscape evolving, ever in bloom. Ooh.
Next to nothing is an innocent flex. I tore down the old throne – shit’s complex.
I saw the pain in the pedestal, the myth it reflects. I can’t let the world in if I’m holding my breath.
Now in the distance, small silhouette of a stranger moves into frame for a glimpse.
Glitch in the image of self as consistent. So, I trust this flux is reality.