The mirror doesn’t know me anymore. It shows a creature of angles—jaw too sharp, eyes too wide, skin stretched over a frame that was never built for this gravity. They call it "alien." But the mask was always there. I just decided to paint it.
Let me be the spore in your clean room. The wrong note in your lullaby. The knuckle in the clockwork. mudvayne alien
So I build my own gravity. Spasms become sentences. The bass groove is a spine I crawl up. The kick drum is a second heart—ugly, irregular, alive. The mirror doesn’t know me anymore
The atoms are still counting.
Breathe in: 4/4. The machine heart ticks. Breathe out: syncopation. The ribs rattle like dice cups. eyes too wide
No. Not free. Just... other.