A short empty beat, then the track steps in already moving forward.

That measured tread is the whole first contact—warm underneath, firm enough to organize you without shoving.

By now the frame has locked in: controlled advance, attacks leaning just off square so the march keeps walking.

Voice in—composed, even—returning to the moment the curtain rose.

Music reaches her with that light da-ra figure, as if it were already waiting.

Pushed from behind and told to smile—and she stays poised inside the same moving frame.

They plant her center stage. The arrangement never breaks stride.

Chorus: it flows past like a parade, and the track stays buoyant inside that line.

Heyday—then she refuses the sad dance. The body still has to keep time with the procession.

Oohs and no-ways stack on; the weight thickens a little without cracking the pulse.

Second verse opens the same way: nothing different next time either.

Someone else waits for the next curtain while the band keeps its upright walk.

Same faces, same voices, begging one dark line of luck—and the arrangement only thickens, no rupture, so the pattern feels repeatable.

She reaches every which way and it only recedes.

Parade returns harder now that we know what it costs—the motion keeps going.

Cruel place again, still carried on that confident upright rhythm.

Another pass of the parade line; the steadiness itself starts to feel like the problem.

Still flowing like a parade, less decorative now and more worn.

Groove holds, but the outer surface starts to flicker more—busier skin over the same march—as she lands the where-are-you question again.

Weight lifts for a moment.

Then it gathers once more for a late push, still upright.

Pressure lets go. The lock recedes, and the track drops into a long silence with nothing coming back.