Almost no lead-in—bass and drums are already on a clipped path, and the guitar is scratching bright marks across it.

That pulse is steady enough to follow, but it never really settles the room.

Curtis is in, asking for a guide to take him by the hand—after the rhythm has already shown there is only forward motion.

Now it is sensations, and whether they could feel like a normal man's pleasures—voice still riding that narrow lane.

Lose sensations, spare the insults—lean arrangement underneath, almost exposed.

There it is: "the spirit," then lose the feeling. The band has animation; the vocal does not have ease.

For a stretch the shape barely changes. That sameness is the pressure—guitar still lighting the surface with nervous brightness.

"It's getting faster"—and the track does not need a new tempo trick. Steadiness already feels like escalation.

Tenth floor, back stairs, no man's land—panic in quick pieces while the band stays functional.

Flashing lights, crashing cars, getting frequent—still delivered through order, not collapse.

Spirit and feeling again, more insistent now—less discovery than a recurring fault. "Let it out somehow."

Back to the hold. Those brighter guitar cuts still feel procedural—documenting strain more than staging it.

The words widen: what means to you, what means to me. The sound stays unsocial—same forward lane, same exposed voice.

Watching, no pity from friends, who gives a damn right now—questions with no warm crowd around them.

"Until the spirit new sensation takes hold"—the line keeps promising a grip, then circles.

Same promise again, and again. No release in the arrangement—only the return.

"I've got the spirit" comes back almost bare.

And the feeling is gone again—then the whole split once more.

Just "feeling," repeated until the word wears down rather than resolving.

Voice has nearly spent its room. The band keeps the path right to the edge.

Then it drops out clean—motion without arrival, cut off cold.