Let me be the spore in your clean room. The wrong note in your lullaby. The knuckle in the clockwork.
I watch you through the visor. You talk with your smooth hands. You laugh with your even teeth. You love with your conditional mercy. And I think: How do you stand the silence inside your own chest? 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. Let me be the spore in your clean room
The atoms are still counting.
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. I watch you through the visor
Exoskeleton of the Self
Let me be the spore in your clean room. The wrong note in your lullaby. The knuckle in the clockwork.
I watch you through the visor. You talk with your smooth hands. You laugh with your even teeth. You love with your conditional mercy. And I think: How do you stand the silence inside your own chest?
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 atoms are still counting.
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.
Exoskeleton of the Self
