Guitars don't spill out—they lock straight into a hard figure and make the count feel unavoidable.

There's the full riff settled in: speed held on a grid, distortion made repeatable, force turned into procedure.

Voice enters from inside that machine—"End of passion play, crumbling away."

He names it outright: source of self-destruction—while the riff keeps hitting the same command point.

Veins, fear, death's construction—the line stays clipped and the drums won't let it turn into loose rage.

Shorter bait now: taste me, more is all you need—the guitars answer like a motor that has no interest in enough.

"Come crawling faster"—then the blunt order, obey your master, no subtlety left in the arrangement.

Title line lands as the system saying its own name—pulling your strings—while the riff jerks and returns under it.

Twisting, smashing, blinded—the voice goes theatrical, but the band stays functional: strike, release, strike.

Second verse, same method—needles, pain monopoly, breakfast on a mirror—fed back into that bright-edged guitar attack.

Taste me / more is all you need again—the cycle doesn't invent a new trap; it just runs the one it has.

Crawling faster, obey, life burns faster—low force still holding the floor under every clipped hit.

Refrain back—master of puppets—and the metaphor still moves with the rhythm instead of floating above it.

He throws the scream line again, then master, master—orders stacking right up to the edge of the middle.

Surface clears. Melodic guitar stretches out, and for a while nothing is barking orders.

It still doesn't really relax—the pulse stays patient underneath that cleaner line, more like distance inside the trap than a way out.

Control by duration now: long phrases, held motion, the same captivity with a different method.

Heavy figure returns—door-closing force, the old discipline back under the hands.

"Where's the dreams that I've been after?"—the question arrives after the music has already shown what happens to desire here.

Promised only lies, then laughter, laughter—nastier because the band kept that efficient grid underneath the taunt.

Just "Fix me"—small plea against a machine that doesn't soften for it.

Final stretch: hell as natural habitat, never-ending maze—the controlling voice back in full possession.

I will occupy, help you die, run through you—direct threats, and guitars and drums still won't let the words stand alone.

Come crawling faster one more time—the whole thing still in a high-functioning state of pressure.

Last title refrain feels less like a chorus than the same machinery rebooting with fresh instructions.

Blinded, scream, master—delivery still sharp while the band keeps every return exact.

Laughter in the wreckage—and pieces starting to shed without handing the song a clean moral exit.

That closing gap feels earned only because motion was compulsory for so long—obedience made musical, then finally let go.