A wet guitar figure, close and a little strange, starts circling by itself.

There—the pulse catches, and the riff finds a steady lane.

Drums and bass lock under it. Same tempo, thicker current, no rush.

Voice comes in plain and close: come as you are, as you were.

Friend, then old enemy—same footing underneath, no warning change in the band.

Take your time, hurry up—the words pull both ways while the groove just keeps walking.

Choice is yours, don't be late: still that even patience in the drums and low line.

Memoria—just the syllable, repeated until it feels worn smooth.

Come doused in mud, soaked in bleach—same invitation, harsher picture, same riff.

Trend, friend, old memoria again. The surface lifts a little; the road doesn't change.

And I swear that I don't have a gun—guitars press wider, the vocal edge sharpens.

No, I don't have a gun. Each return sits on that even band tread, less reassuring than the last.

Solo takes the vocal melody up into a brighter, more exposed shape—not a show-off run.

It folds back into the cycle. The riff was waiting the whole time.

Memoria returns, and the denial is already tucked inside it.

And I swear that I don't have a gun—back on the line, insisting.

No, I don't have a gun, again and again, trapped in the same pocket.

The hold finally eases. Groove body thins out; the current drains while it still seems to move.