A guitar figure steps out first — that small, curling minor lick — and a drum stomp falls in behind it almost immediately, close and drenched in reverb, as if the two were introduced mid-sentence. The pulse is quick, even, and it takes the body within seconds; by the time the bass walks in, the whole contract is on the table. This is a girl-group stomp with a funeral in its shoes, played in a room far bigger than the band standing in it.

Her voice arrives at 0:15, low and unhurried, close to composed. The first verse is all dignity — head high, tears dry, getting on without him — and she delivers it like a report, sitting a touch behind the beat while the stomp does the moving for her. Nothing in the arrangement argues with the pose. The chords just keep turning the same dark corner, over and over, underneath.

She only opens the wound in the chorus, at 1:18: I died a hundred times. The top of the arrangement warms and fills — backing voices, a brighter sweep — while the drums don't change their step at all. The bounce treats the confession like any other line. The grief has to ride the beat like everything else, and that arrangement fact turns out to be the whole song.

The second verse trades blame in couplets, small and almost bored, and then the image that names the music: I'm a tiny penny rolling up the walls inside. By then the harmony has already rolled the same turn a dozen times — the cycle she's describing is the cycle the band is playing. When the chorus comes back at 2:08 it returns doubled, no verse between the passes, and she leans harder into the second one, the voice finally matching what the stomp knew all along.

Just past 2:40 the floor thins out. One word — black — stretched across a full bar, then another, seven of them across half a minute, each landing like a footfall with a short guitar figure answering it. The pocket never stops ticking underneath; slow as the chant is, the grid stays put. The title stops being a place and becomes the pulse itself, the destination sung as rhythm.

The last pair of choruses at 3:22 uses the same words as the first one, but the chant has loaded them — you back to her, her back to black, a hundred more deaths in the same breath. Her final line lands around 3:48, and then the band stops on a dime. One reverberant bar hangs in that oversized room, and the recording lets it go — a march that never once broke step, halting mid-stride.