[Intro: The Stupendium]
At the edge of understanding, the border of the known
The breaking point of reason, where logic is dethroned
Where sense is defenseless and festers on the bone
One writer fights a cycle, trying to write a way back home
In Night Springs
Tonight’s episode: "The Ribbon"
[Verse 1: The Stupendium]
We open, our protagonist, brash, pragmatic, fantasist
Trapped within a cabin, frantic, grappling with a manuscript
Passionately grasping for a catalyst but the syntax isn’t landing
Grabs the draft out from the carriage and abandons it
Hе doesn’t really know quite what hе’s writing, but he has to
Sits enraptured in the flow of what he’s typing
Cramping wrists, his hands in fits
The hammers slam the characters, they writhe and dance and twist
But never seem to parse more than "surviving"
As the grammar shifts
A bulb, it flickers for a moment, darkness falls for just a second
But it lingers, forms unspoken, hark the call, the shadows beckon
Swallowed dawn, still all-consuming, every corner lurking, looming
Hear the ichor hymns so soothing as the screaming silence deafens
Another page, a hurried scrawl, a night replays, a dozen more
Another failed and crumpled ball of "almost, maybe" on the floor
Framed within the maze within the print
His escape from all this hinges on which page becomes the door
At the edge of understanding, the border of the known
The breaking point of reason, where logic is dethroned
Where sense is defenseless and festers on the bone
One writer fights a cycle, trying to write a way back home
In Night Springs
Tonight’s episode: "The Ribbon"
[Verse 1: The Stupendium]
We open, our protagonist, brash, pragmatic, fantasist
Trapped within a cabin, frantic, grappling with a manuscript
Passionately grasping for a catalyst but the syntax isn’t landing
Grabs the draft out from the carriage and abandons it
Hе doesn’t really know quite what hе’s writing, but he has to
Sits enraptured in the flow of what he’s typing
Cramping wrists, his hands in fits
The hammers slam the characters, they writhe and dance and twist
But never seem to parse more than "surviving"
As the grammar shifts
A bulb, it flickers for a moment, darkness falls for just a second
But it lingers, forms unspoken, hark the call, the shadows beckon
Swallowed dawn, still all-consuming, every corner lurking, looming
Hear the ichor hymns so soothing as the screaming silence deafens
Another page, a hurried scrawl, a night replays, a dozen more
Another failed and crumpled ball of "almost, maybe" on the floor
Framed within the maze within the print
His escape from all this hinges on which page becomes the door
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