It opens low and unsettled—room tone and glitch preparation before the counted weight enters.

Voice enters right on that grid: I've got a river running right into you.

Blood trail, red in the blue—same controlled push under the line.

Something you say or something you do, still trying to stay melodic while the track hardens around it.

A taste of the divine doesn't float above this—it's pressed through the riff and drum weight.

You've got my body, flesh, and bone—then sky above, earth below. Flesh and world on the same scale.

Raise me up again—the voice reaches up, but the ground stays bolted.

Take me past the edge, still climbing inside that sealed frame.

I want to see the other side—ascent without freedom.

See the other side hangs there while the heavy form just keeps holding.

Body, flesh, and bone back again—same ritual words, another pass at the threshold.

Sky above, earth below—the refrain feels less like a new scene than a repeated test.

Raise me up again returns heavier—same lift, more compression around it.

Past the edge again; the voice can smooth, sharpen, then settle back into melody.

I want to see the other side once more—still no open air in the arrangement.

Won't you show me what it's like—the ask is stretching, and the delivery starts to abrade.

There it is—harsh voice on the same line. Controlled craving turns compelled.

After that, it crouches. Charge stays stored instead of spent.

By now the distortion has drained into pads and piano-like tones; the hold works by space, not weight.

The hard block has returned, snapping the middle back into force after the drift.

Whole body of the song changes—smoother, brighter groove under Oh, and my love.

Did I mistake you for a sign from God—close voice now, the question on a different scale.

Or are you really here to cast me off—worship and doubt sharing the same breath.

Or maybe just to turn me on. Heat steps forward, but low force is still under the groove.

These days—the confession opens up over that seduction pocket.

I would be lying if I told you that—the confession is intimate and plain.

A brief cut in the motion—like the groove holding eye contact.

Or maybe make a good girl bad—then another small silence charges the smoother surface.

River running right into you again—same opening lines, new body underneath them.

Blood trail, red in the blue returns while the late groove keeps walking.

Weight lifts a little around here, but the groove shape doesn't leave.

The taste of the divine—softer now, still the same hunger.

Body, flesh, and bone; sky and earth—ritual words in the loosened field.

Nothing to say and nowhere to go—the grip is easing.

Last taste of the divine as the force starts to let go.

Silence. Not solved—just out of reach.