Short hush, then that dry march locks: bass low, drums clipped, strings bright on top.

Voice is already inside the machine. No big wind-up. Just memory on the downbeat.

Hear the room open around him. Echo, space, and a middle lane left clear.

Weight lifts a little here, but the pulse never softens.

Chorus as a test of the room. Same question, same blunt floor underneath.

And that tiny answer, Possibly, just gets swallowed by the groove.

Generous line up top. Fixed stare in the rhythm below.

Now the question has teeth. Who do you, who do you, landing on ground that will not move.

Grammar flips. Not does that make me. I think you're crazy.

Stakes widen. Heroes out on a limb, and the beat still refuses to pause for them.

Childhood folded into momentum, then the dark lean: die when I'm done.

Charge spreads. Maybe I'm, maybe you're, maybe we're.

Probably. Less escape than Possibly had.

The hold loosens. Motion falls off fast into clean silence.