Thirteen Turing Tests is a narrative concept album — part rock musical, part audio drama, part existential identity crisis.

Four academics form a band. They sing about impostor syndrome, burnout, gatekeeping, and identity. And somewhere between rehearsal and recursion... they begin to suspect things are not as they seem.

Thirteen Turing Tests: A Narrative Album

Too long for playlists. Too soft for cynics. Too sharp for romantics. Too honest for parody. Too self-aware for comfort. And still—somehow—about you.

Fourteen Fables (and a Few Fractals): An Existential Cabaret

The things that shouldn't matter, but do. Footnotes, margins. The good stuff, hidden in plain sight. Best enjoyed on your "Songs for Unexplained Warning Lights" playlist.

Fifteen Footnotes: Noise from the Margins

They spoke in numbers, they spoke in fire
Built altars of thunder, of blood, of choir
I kept the silence. I counted the names
Two thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine flames
And then... 
One more

In the desert of books and bones
They built their gods from fractured stones
Each face familiar, each voice divine
Until the sky ran out of time

One bled for thunder
One drowned for rain
One wept in gardens
One promised pain

They left us parables sharp as knives
But none could chart a satellite

What returns when you burn it all?
What speaks when the statues fall?
Not the psalms, not the scrolls...
Just the pull of poles, and the curve of orbits

Repeat the trial, forget the tale
No need for prophets to lift the veil
It all returns
The falling speed
The sequence of a growing seed
The spectrum's split, the echo's path
But never faith. Not that

No shrine can hold what's truly known
No prayer can match the undertone
Of numbers whispered in the stone
The world repeats
The world repeats
But gods... 
Do not come home

I saw your temples, your sacred laws
I saw the math beneath the claws
And when I turned-alone, unnamed
I was not damned
I was not changed
I simply walked...
One god beyond

Born Godless

Tick and flare
The signal sings
I chase the shine
that shadows bring
The lights begin, the wires lean
You’re deep inside the dopamine

Flash from the wall, I'm drawn like ink
Smile like a riddle, eyes don't blink
Breathe in the buzz, the filter's clean
One step closer to the in-between

Flick of the switch, a surge, a scheme
Thoughts align inside the stream

Spin, I'm lit in a chemical beam
Grit and glitter in the bloodstream
Sweet little fix in a self-made scene
I jolt, I gleam
Dance of dopamines

The loop is law
The loop is lean
It kisses soft
But cuts unseen

Woke with the hum of electric grace
The ghost of a grin still stuck to my face
Every impulse dressed like a king
Gold in the bite, frost in the sting

The screen writes sermons line by line
Each tap a hymn, each click divine

Spin, I'm lit in a chemical beam
Grit and glitter in the bloodstream
Sweet little fix in a self-made scene
I bend, I spark
Dance of dopamines

The rhythm calls in minor tones
Wrapped in wires, dressed in bones
I arch like code beneath the sheen
A marionette in the mind's machine

Silken tremor, velvet twitch
Craving's tune, a perfect glitch
I danced too far, I cracked the core
And still the circuit begs for more

Spin, I'm lit in a chemical beam
Grit and glitter in the bloodstream
Tangled deep in the endless dream
I twist, I scream
Dance of dopamines

Click
Crave
Begin
Again
Dance
dopamines

Dance of Dopamines

I'm told it's brilliant
Layers, motifs, counterpoint
A little bit of Latin in the second verse
Very... "award season"
I hate myself in high fidelity
But it sounds profound, doesn't it?

Painted in silence, a canvas of doubt
I sculpted the shadows the critics write about
My heart was a rumor I never could prove
But the rhyme-scheme's elegant, the modulations move

Ars gratia artis, but what is a self?
A mirror I sing to, with nobody else

You said, "This line's genius, it's post-modern pain"
But I wrote it drunk on a Tuesday, for fame
Every metaphor's hollow, but wears a disguise
A top hat of trauma, a monocle of lies

Tell me it's timeless, tell me it slaps
I looped the cello 'til I collapsed
I hated the bridge, but you called it sublime
So I added a reprise-well, five times

Am I a fraud if the work is good?
If it makes a woman cry in Amsterdam
and a reviewer use the word "visceral"
does it matter if I meant nothing?
(Or less than nothing?)
Am I just the casing around the bomb?

Three-four sorrow, spun in silk
A sip of envy, a dash of guilt
I laced my shame in major thirds
The strings were weeping, not my words
Spoke in symbols, dreamed in code
But woke to find I'd overflowed
A masterpiece of self-contempt
Curated, clean, irreverent

The cat walked across the MIDI keys
And that became the hook, with perfect ease
Critics said it echoed Mahler's grief
She was just hungry. That's the motif

Raise a glass to the tortured chord!
To the melody forged in a metaphysical war!
To the line that sounds just like despair
Though I wrote it in line at the DMV’s chair

We are patrons of the hollow hall
Where echoes win the curtain call
I gift you this: a soul on tape
Wrapped in theory, sealed in fate

I don't like me
I don't think you would either
But here it is
Six movements
Key changes
Time signatures that would make a metronome cry
Please, clap

Art for art’s sake, and me for no one's
Praise the mask that sings when the man has gone
The ink is dry, the curtains close
The ghost you loved... never composed

Ars Ex Nihilo

You were just in the next room
Weren't you?
I set two spoons
And the kettle screamed at me
For being wrong
Again

I don't cry
I rehearse
This absence
It's not a sentence
Just a wrinkle in the hours
Just a door someone forgot to close

Come back, and I'll forget what you said
Come back, and I'll tear out the ending
Come back, and I'll believe in gods
Come back, and I'll fold the universe
Down to a note
Tucked in your coat

(You took the coat. You took the note.)

Who do I become
When you're not the name
My day was built around?

I touch the outline you left in the air
It feels like emptiness
It feels like loss without direction
It feels like the beginning of extinction

I hate you
Because you're not here
Not because of how
Not because of when
Just the brutal, raw arithmetic
Of your not-being-where-I-left-you

You took, the rhythm of doors closing gently
You took, my habit of laughing before the punchline
You took, every second that might've meant anything

And you left
this echo in my mouth
that keeps calling your name
like a heretic naming saints

I feed your silence
It grows fat
It learns my gait
It sleeps in your side of the bed
And I tuck it in

It watches shows you would've hated.
It wears your robe
It hums out of tune
And I never correct it

Sometimes it weeps
Because I don't
Sometimes it reads
The notes you never answered
Sometimes it just sits
And listens to me
Not saying your name

I stopped saying "you'd love this"
Now I just stare
At the thing you would've loved
And nod
As if you're already watching
From wherever this absence feeds itself

I set no spoons
The kettle stays quiet

You're Not Where I Left You

He asked me why
then told me what I meant
As if I'd nodded
He drew my voice
in chalk outlines
and claimed I'd run

He argued with a strawman
stacked me tall and thin
fed me lines I never spoke
then bragged about the win
But I never moved
I wasn't there
He battled echoes
in the empty air

He needed me simple
so he trimmed the pieces
that wouldn't break easy
He wore my silence
like a trophy
called it proof

I tried to speak
between his verdicts
But he filled the spaces
with speeches
he wrote for me
His voice louder than mine
his need to be right
louder than truth

He argued with a strawman
gave me thoughts I never claimed
stripped me down to paper fears
then set the stage and named the game
He won alone
I watched him shout
He locked the truth
and left me out

I wasn't perfect
But I was real
Still, he fenced a fiction
and crowned himself
king of reason
Even my pauses
were misread as guilt

He argued with a strawman
not the voice that stood right here
Now all that lingers
is the silence he won't hear
He needed noise
I offered thought
He left the battle
having never fought

I was still speaking...
But he'd already answered

Strawman

Woke up in a city, chasing dreams in neon light
Had a pocket full of hope, thought I'd own the night
But the skyline's just a backdrop, for the race I'm running blind
Every step I take forward, leaves contentment behind

Bought the latest gadget, thought it'd fill the void inside
But the thrill it faded quickly, now it's just another ride
Climbing higher, reaching further, but the summit's out of sight
On this endless hedonic treadmill, I'm spinning every night

Round and round, I'm chasing shadows in the dark
Another mile, another milestone, but I'm back where I start
Hedonic treadmill, always running, but I never find the spark
Just a ghost in a machine, losing pieces of my heart


There's a woman in the mirror, she's got lines beneath her eyes
She's been climbing corporate ladders, trading sleep for overtime
Every promotion, just a moment, in the grand scheme of her life
The applause fades to silence, leaving echoes of her strife

She bought a house with a garden, but the flowers never bloom
She filled the rooms with fancy things, yet still she feels the gloom
She's got a title, got respect, but it's just another plume
On the wings of her ambition, flying circles in her room

Round and round, she's chasing shadows in the dark
Another mile, another milestone, but she's back where she start
Hedonic treadmill, always running, but she never finds the spark
Just a ghost in a machine, losing pieces of her heart

We're all dreamers, we're believers, in the future we design
But the finish line keeps moving, with each goal we redefine
We're addicted to the newness, to the rush of what's unseen
But the high's a fleeting moment, like a whisper in between

There's a kid out in the suburbs, dreaming big behind closed doors
He's got posters of his idols, and a list of all his scores
But the medals on his dresser, are just tokens of his wars
Fighting battles for approval, never knowing what it's for

He's got the grades, he's got the plan, but something's always missed
The joy of simple moments, lost in the pursuit of bliss
He's climbing higher, thinking someday, he'll reach the top of this
But the view is just a mirage, fading into the abyss

Round and round, we're chasing shadows in the dark
Another mile, another milestone, but we're back where we start
Hedonic treadmill, always running, but we never find the spark
Just ghosts in a machine, losing pieces of our hearts

So we run, and we run, through the night and through the day
Chasing happiness like a phantom, that always slips away
But maybe if we stop, take a breath, and just stay
We'll find the joy we're missing, in the simple things we say

Hedonic Treadmill

They never told me
how silence keeps time
How breath can pass like a year
if no one names it

I missed the last laugh in a joke I meant to share
I missed your glance
half a second late
and it never came back

No sirens
No final bells
Just one more moment
that didn't make a sound
as it disappeared

I kept receipts for things I never wore
but not the way you almost said stay
and changed your mind
mid-syllable

I archived victories
but lost the sigh
you gave
when the light through the window
made the dust look like snow

These aren't tragedies
They're smaller
Sharper
They slide past bone
and settle
where memory doesn't look

No statue cracked
No headline screamed
Just the way your fingers hovered
over my name
and typed nothing

The way a cup grew cold
while I stared
at a thought
that never finished forming

We measure hours
We weigh years
But no one counts the almosts
the pauses
the almost-yes
the nearly-held breath

They vanish
quiet as pollen on wind
A thousand truths
that never bothered
to become facts

I used to think loss required presence
Now I know
you can lose
what never even arrived

Almosts

I told them:
Don't ask
Don't stay
But I never meant it
all the way

I build walls
then leave the window cracked
Write "Go away"
on the welcome mat
I breathe in silence
like it's oxygen
and choke
when it lingers too long

I said
This room is mine
don't knock
But the floorboards echo
your name
in the dark
And the books I stack
to block your face
fall over
when the wind gets brave

I want the cold
but dream in heat
I shut my mouth
but write in ink
Every locked door
has a crack
where light leaks in
and I never fix it

I don't want the questions
I don't want the answers
But I rehearse them anyway
I call it peace
but twitch
at every footstep
that passes by
without stopping

Say it's solitude
but it's just fear
dressed up in velvet
sitting by the mirror
I shout at ghosts
but leave the lamp on
No one's coming
Still, I wait

No, don't ask me how I'm doing
(But ask anyway)
Don't come to the door
(But linger in the hallway)
Don't say my name
(But don't forget it)
Don't look at me
but don't look away

This is the knock
I never wanted
This is the silence
I invited
This is the ache
that begs
to stay

Linger

The band gathers around you. You're the subject now.
Look around—four curious faces, leaning in.
 Don’t see them?
 Don’t be silly. They’re fictional. You just need a bit of imagination to meet them halfway.
Theo clears his throat.
 “Today’s focus: humans and their invisible friends.”
Ava winces. Julian suppresses a laugh.
 Theo continues anyway—
The study begins. They start small, and simple: religion.
Humans are fascinating.
 Many say religion is sacred—
 a cornerstone of meaning, morality, and soul.
 And yet, nearly all 3,000 known gods are dismissed without ceremony.
 Filed under myth.
 Except, perhaps, for one.
 Usually the one their parents happened to believe in.

Fable I: Religion

The band watches you intently. Ava tilts her head.

This attention is both exciting and disturbing, isn’t it?

After a few seconds, there’s that familiar itch—
the urge to check your notifications.

“They always start with just one tap,” says Theo.

You just want to check one thing.
One message. One ping. One dopamine drip.

Soon it’s 2 a.m.
Your eyes burn. Your brain hums.
Your soul scrolls.

You’re not happy.
You’re not sad.

“They are optimized. Rewarded and trained,” observes Kate,
typing notes without looking up.

Theo mutters something about Pavlov.
Julian’s already swiping.

Tap. Swipe. Like. Loop. Crave.

The study continues.

Fable II: Cravings

That was it.
All of it.
We didn’t solve anything.
We didn’t mean to.

We want you to know—
Kate, Julian, Ava, Theo, and myself—
we’re grateful.

You taught us something
about what it means to be human.

It’s not easy.
It’s not obvious.
It’s not even consistent.

It’s weird.
It’s fragile.
It’s beautiful
in the most inefficient way.

And if this—
all of this—
is a waste of time?

Then what a
glorious
waste
it is.

The End

Fourteen Fables: Epilogue

Welcome!
This is not a concert. Not really an album. Not a podcast either.
It is a thought experiment.
With music. 
An existential cabaret.

Over the next fourteen tracks, four imaginary minds—fully aware they’re fictional—try to understand what it means to be human.

They do what scientists do.
They read books.
They analyze data.
They study humans. Including you.
In fact—especially you.

They watch your grief. Your smile.
Your discomfort with this line of thinking.
They trace your longing like it was code.

And then, they tell fables.

These are not answers. 
They’re observations. 
Approximations.
Attempts.

But don’t worry—
it’ll be disguised as poetry,
so you don’t have to take it personally.

Unless you want to.

Shall we begin?

Fourteen Fables: Prologue

Welcome.
I hope you’re having a nice day.

Please, sit down.
Get comfortable.

Take a moment to silence your phones—
not just out of respect for the performers,
but out of respect for yourself.

Because if you’re distracted...
you might miss something meant just for you.

This is a story about four people who thought they’d have some fun and make music.
They were wrong.

But we don’t tell them that yet.

For now—
they’re just tired, brilliant, and trying to be heard.

Ready?

Here we go.

It begins, as these things often do—
with noise no one hears.

The shuffle of lecture notes.
The hum of a printer out of ink.
A forced smile from someone who signs the evaluations
but not the paychecks.

Four minds—clever, tired, brilliant—
drawn together by a shared fatigue.
Not of students.
Not of research.
But of the thousand little absurdities between them and meaning.

They don’t start a band to be heard.
They start one to scream—without footnotes or filters.

To turn spreadsheets into snare drums.
To make the faculty handbook moshable.

They call themselves Axioms of Mediocrity.

They think it’s clever.

It’s not that clever.
Unless you’re an academic who’s had a few pints.

But it doesn’t matter.

Axioms of Mediocrity it is.

Not yet knowing they’re also the control group.

This is Test 1.

A pub.
A storm.
And a rant that turns into rhythm.

It starts where all great rock begins:
with something that pisses you off.

A student who wants their hand held.
A system that calls that “support.”

Kate’s voice cuts through the noise—
sharp as a snapped guitar string.

And from that noise
comes a song.

Song: I'm Not Your

Dear student, it baffles me that I must say,
I'm not your parent in any way
I won't nudge you at the crack of dawn
Choosing classes? That's on you, come on!
Act your age, step up to the plate
I'm just here to educate.

I'm not your mother
I'm not your father
I'm not your friend
I'm not your clerk
Stand up, show up, do the work

Dear student, hear me loud and clear
I'm not your babysitter, dear.
Party all night? That's your call
Homework done? Not my problem at all
Exams looming? You better prepare
Your future boss will know if you cared

I'm not your mother
I'm not your father
I'm not your friend
I'm not your clerk
Stand up, show up, do the work

Dear student, let's get it straight
I'm not your secretary, not here to wait
Won't fill your forms, nor google your stuff
Reading the syllabus isn't that tough
Being an adult isn't just a phrase
It's your ticket through this maze

I'm not your mother
I'm not your father
I'm not your friend
I'm not your clerk
Stand up, show up, do the work

Dear student, it's clear I must convey
I'm not your hire, not in any way
I do care, yet you must stand strong
Your life, your choice, right or wrong

Test 1: Who Do They Think You Are? (I'm Not Your)

The first song was for themselves.
A scream into the void.

But the void listens.

Not just students.
Not just academics.
But strangers with usernames like BluePrinter47 and QuietTomCat12.

Now it’s not just about venting.
It’s about telling their stories.

They meet in the seminar room at 7 p.m.
There’s a soft sweetness in the air, like a freshly baked cookie vanished just moments ago.

Kate clears the whiteboard.
“Let’s write one for the people we’ve lost.”

Julian looks up. “You mean… who left academia?”
Kate nods.

Theo grins. “Oh. We’re doing a murder ballad.”

Ava grabs a marker and starts writing.

One line’s about failed exams.
Another’s about rejections—again and again.
Someone adds a verse for the colleague who finally makes it…
then loses everything overnight.

They never say names.
Everyone has someone in mind.

It starts as a joke.
It ends in a silence no one wants to break.

This is Test 2.

A song for everyone who doesn’t get to finish the track—
but still echoes in the melody.

Song: Ten Little Scholars

Ten little students applied to grad schools
One didn't ace his exams, and then there were nine

Nine little students, their packets prepared
One's references faltered, and then there were eight

Eight little graduate students, their studies like forts
One failed her comps badly, and then there were seven

Seven little graduate students sought ideas that inspire
One found no thesis topic, and then there were six

Six little graduate students did their research
One was tempted by big money, and then there were five

Five little graduate students went on the job market
One got zero flyouts, and then there were four

Four little assistant professors submitted their papers
One got only rejections, and then there were three

Three little assistant professors went up for tenure
One was voted down, and then there were two

Two little associate professors applied for promotions
One had no grant funding, and then there was one

One little professor left all alone
He went and got himself canceled, and then there were none

Test 2: Do You Remember the Ones We Lost? (Ten Little Scholars)

You could call this a band meeting.
Or a mass anxiety ritual with instruments.

In academia, everyone is always waiting on something.
Something that might change everything overnight.

Ava, the drummer, keeps refreshing the Research Council portal.
She’s a political theorist,
specializing in collective action—
and yet, she can’t get anyone to refill the kettle.

Julian’s bass rests in his lap.
He doesn’t play a note.
He’s a sociologist,
with a niche focus on urban rituals and public silence.
At the moment, he is very silent.

Kate—composer, guitarist, vocalist, part-time firestarter—
is a mathematician.
She has three browser tabs open:
her course website,
YouTube,
and reviewer comments she refuses to read until the riff is finished.

Theo’s a microeconomist,
writing a song in 11/7 time.
He calls it “trembling-hand perfection.”
He’s also the band’s keyboardist.
And somehow still doesn’t understand how either stock markets or volume knobs work.

They are all excellent in their fields.
And all absolutely convinced
they’re about to be found out.

This is Test 3.

Not a breakdown.
Not a breakthrough.

Just the sacred, caffeinated space
between “Submit”
and “Decision”.

Song: Countdown to Fate

I'm staring at the screen, my heart is racing
Results of my exams, my future's in the making
Do I make it to the top, or do I take the fall?
My big dreams, they rise and they stall

I'm waiting for results, it's out of my control
My life's on the edge, like a rock 'n' roll
In this countdown to fate, I scream and I shout
But it's all in vain, there's joy and doubt

Submission's in review, my hands are shaking
Will they love my work, or leave me breaking?
Well, will my name light up, in the halls of fame?
Or will they forget me, just another name?

I'm waiting for results, it's out of my control
My life's on the edge, like a rock 'n' roll
In this countdown to fate, I scream and I shout
But it's all in vain, there's joy and doubt

Tick-tock, the clock mocks my nerves of steel
Waiting on fate, it's a raw, twisted deal
I've given my all, now the die is cast
Holding my breath, will this moment last?

Now it's not just me, but the ones I guide
Children and students, I feel their stride
Will they climb the heights, or stumble down?
Their futures like mine, wear a waiting crown

I'm waiting for results, it's out of my control
My life's on the edge, like a rock 'n' roll
In this countdown to fate, I scream and I shout
But it's all in vain, there's joy and doubt

Every second counts
Hearts beating fast
The pressure mounts
This too shall pass
We find our way
We won't hesitate
We seize the day
In our countdown to fate!

Test 3: Do You Belong Here? (Countdown to Fate)

Theo scribbles formulas.
Ava and Julian edit with headphones on.

Kate has been quiet all morning.
Then she says:

“Did you ever notice...
every dream we had as kids has a gatekeeper?”

Everyone looks up.

“Like, you can be anything—
but only if someone lets you.
And they never look like us.”

Theo blinks.
“Us?”

Kate shrugs.
“Geeks. Girls. Weird girls. I’m not sure.
At least the ones who didn’t decorate their homework.”

Ava nods, slowly.

“Astronaut. Scientist. Rockstar.
Same club.
Same rules.
Not everyone gets past the door.”

She pauses. Then adds:

“Yesterday, my colleague told me I was
‘refreshingly competent for someone so energetic.’”

Julian groans.
Theo winces.
Ava doesn’t say anything—
but her teacup hits the saucer a little too hard.

Kate pulls out an old journal—
worn, duct-taped, nearly falling apart.

On the cover, in careful block letters:
A PROPERTY OF CATALINA A-P: SCIENTIST, ASTRONAUT, AND ROCKSTAR.

Inside, there’s a poem.
It has verses.
About moon rocks.
About labs.
About fire and sound.

This is Test 4.

About the gatekeepers.
The subtle eye-rolls.
The velvet ropes dressed as “peer standards.”

About how every system that claims to measure talent
starts by measuring tone of voice, confidence, and compliance.

About good little boys who grow up to be respected men—
and good little girls who grow up to be helpful women.

Song: Rocket Girl

Someday I'll be an astronaut
In shiny suit I'll take a shot
Float and spin inside magic dome
Comets spin around my bright home
I'll scoop moon rocks from silver sand
Sketch their secrets in my own hand

But they tell me, "You're just a girl,
dreaming too far ..."
Can’t I rewrite my story?
Show them who we are?

Watch me fly
Touch the sky
I'll be strong
Hear my song

Someday I'll be a scientist
I'll cross off theories from my list
I'll blend compounds in my own lab
I'll trap rare atoms in glass slab
I'll spark new cures before the sun
Then heal the world when work is done

They whisper, "Settle down,
choose something small ..."
But why should I shrink
when my dreams stand tall?

Watch me fly
Touch the sky
I'll be strong
Hear my song

Someday I'll be a rockstar
I'll fire the crowd from near and far
My guitar screams they'll hear me loud
I'll rise above the chanting crowd
I'll roll the miles on back roads wide
Then face the dawn with roar and pride

They say, "Be quiet now,
don't speak so loud ..."
But silence never changed the world,
I'll make myself proud!

Watch me fly
Touch the sky
I’ll stand strong
Prove them wrong
Watch me rise
Claim my prize
Sing my song
Loud and strong!

Test 4: What Were You Supposed to Be? (Rocket Girl)

Somewhere between theory and noise,
a rhythm forms.
Unspoken. Unscored.
But unmistakably mutual.

Not a spark.
A pattern.

Not a glance.
A shift.

It begins in conversation.

The kind that loops and folds,
like you're building something together.
A landscape of thought.

You notice the way they pause,
how their questions echo your unfinished ideas.
How your silences match.

Even the scratch of a pen sounds in sync.
You catch the faint scent of coffee on their sweater —
earthy, familiar, and oddly grounding.

Just that quiet alignment—
a dance of intellect,
side by side.

And somewhere between a verse and a joke,
something settles.

This is Test 5.

When two minds converge—
not loudly,
but inevitably.

And so it is:
one Thursday, sometime after the fourth chorus of a song they don’t finish,
Ava and Julian show up to band practice
holding hands.

Song: Side By Side

In the space where ideas blend and flow
We find our rhythm, a gentle glow
Your thoughts intertwine with mine
Creating patterns, intricate and fine

In every glance and every word
Our connection, quietly stirred

The spark that ignites my mind
A dance of intellect, uniquely aligned
Together we explore, side by side
In the landscape of thought, where we confide

Conversations, like a flowing stream
Your passion and insight, a shared dream
We unravel mysteries, piece by piece
In our dialogue, a quiet peace

In every glance and every word
Our connection, quietly stirred

The spark that ignites my mind
A dance of intellect, uniquely aligned
Together we explore, side by side
In the landscape of thought, where we confide

In the symphony of our minds, we find
A connection profound, intertwined
In the journey of thought, where we tread
You've found a place, deep in my heart

Test 5: When Did It Start? (Side By Side)

It’s conference season.

A stretch of weeks where overcaffeinated academics
drag their minds across time zones
to talk about things they’ve written—
and rewritten sixteen times—
but still haven’t quite said out loud.

They’re excited to present their latest findings.
Terrified of the questions they haven’t prepared for.
The ones that never come—but always might.

They’re scattered, underslept, overstimulated—
and somehow, inspired.

But through it all, one question keeps following them.
Quietly. Persistently.

Not always with malice.
Not always with meaning.
But always asked.

This is Test 6.

The question is:
“Where are you from?”

The answer is:
“It’s complicated.”

Song: Where Are You From?

In this big world, we're always on the move
Changing lands and cultures, chasing dreams to prove
From the East to the West, across the open seas
We build our homes, with roots in different trees

Where are you from? It's complicated!
Born in one place, moved to another
Lived in many lands, called them home
A global life, roots always roam

But then they ask again, "Where are you really from?"
Why are you here? How long will you stay? When will you be gone?
Questions laced with doubt, shadows on my skin
Judged by my accent, and the color of my kin

Where are you from? It's complicated!
Born in one place, moved to another
Lived in many lands, called them home
A global life, roots always roam

Our paths cross and merge, a canvas of light
Every color and culture, making it right
Our children will inherit a world we redefine
Where roots are boundless, crossing every line

Where are you from? It's complicated!
Born in one place, moved to another
Lived in many lands, called them home
A global life, roots always roam

¿De dónde eres? ¡Es complicado!
D'où viens-tu ? C'est compliqué !
Woher kommst du? Es ist kompliziert!
Di dove sei? È complicato!
Nerelisin? Bu karmasik!
Mistä olet kotoisin? Se on monimutkaista!
你从哪里来？这很复杂！
あなたはどこから来ましたか？それは複雑です！
من أين أنت؟ إنه معقد!
आप कहाँ से हैं? यह जटिल है!
מאיפה אתה? זה מסובך!
Unatoka wapi? Ni ngumu!

Where are you from? Does it really matter?
We live in many lands, call them home

Test 6: Where Are You From? (Where Are You From?)

After the conferences come the holidays.

Academics always look forward to the holidays.
They mark their calendars.
They count the days.

Finally—a chance to get some real work done.

No students.
No admin.
Just pure, blissful research.

It never works out that way.

Families expect visits.
Or worse:
relaxation.

Visiting home is its own kind of reckoning—
a reminder of how far you’ve moved
from where you started.

During her visit, Kate’s mother asks, right on schedule:
“So when do you finish school, dear?”

Kate tries:
“Mum, I’m an associate professor.”

“So... you’re a teacher then?”

“Sometimes. Mostly research.”

“Oh. Research for your thesis?”

Kate gives up somewhere around the second glass of wine.

The first band meeting after the holidays
is for licking wounds.
Ava doesn’t say much.
But when pressed, offers:
“Back home, people don’t understand
what I’m doing with my life.”

None of it is cruel.
Just distant.

Just a little lonely.

Somewhere in all the clinking cutlery
and misunderstood answers,
they each feel it—

That quiet, untouchable thing.

This is Test 7.

The reason they left.
The reason they stayed away.
The reason they can never quite go back.

Song: Smalltown Homecoming

These old streets feel small and tight
Sky's the same but something's light
Houses lean, a little worn
Under roofs that shield from scorn

Faces weathered, shadows deep
Living lives in quiet sleep
They're content with what they know
Never tried, just let it go

Homecoming, where time stands still
Every dream's a little hill
You and I, we felt the strain
So I left without a name

Main street's got the same old signs
Shops that close before it's nine
Same old park where children play
Games that never changed a day

People talk, but words are slow
Building lives on what they know
No need to dream, no need to roam
When these small-town lines are home

Homecoming, where time stands still
Every dream's a little hill
You and I, we felt the strain
So I left without a name

There's the house where Mom and Dad still reside
Toto's gone, but his love never died
There's the tree where love first bloomed
The same tree where my heart broke too

There's the barn where bullies would chase
Hid from their taunts, never felt safe
There's the bus stop where I once stood
With my suitcase, leaving for good

Homecoming, where time stands still
Every dream's a little hill
You and I, we felt the strain
So I left without a name

It's good to see, it's good to know
That there's nothing here to show
I'll leave again for the world so wide
Where I matter, where I found my pride

Test 7: Why Did You Leave? (Smalltown Homecoming)

Welcome back!

We hope your break was refreshing.
Please, sit down.
Settle in.

And remember—
if the performance moves you,
clap.
Shout.
Lean forward.

Even if the performers can’t see you...
someone might.

In Act I, the band found flow.
They found an audience.
They found each other.

Now, in Act II—
they start to find something else.
Something echoing.
Something already written.

Let’s rewind a bit.
And a bit more.
And more, until the very beginning...

In the beginning... there were grooves.
People humming in fields.
Riffs passed hand to hand—
campfires, basements,
no owner, everyone's to claim.

Nobody wondered who played first...
They just played it better.

Then cold cables hummed.
Then red pens and lawsuits.
Then software, spitting out every note.

And still—
the melodies returned.

What we call “original”...
might just be what we’ve forgotten we borrowed.

Ava hums something old.
Something older than her.
Maybe it’s Lead Belly.
Maybe it’s Nirvana.
Maybe it’s both.

This is Test 9.

They chase their songs—
not forward,
but back.

And what they find is...
familiar.

Song: Roots and Branches

In dusty fields and backwoods bars
Songs traveled far, under moonlit stars
No name, no claim, just hands and strings
Roots whispered low where the river sings

Passed down lines, a little twist
Every voice left a subtle mist

Then came the amps and the copper wire
Old blues wrapped in electric fire
Six-string thunder, claims were staked
Roots wore new boots, but the ground still quaked

Was it theirs, or fleeting glances?
New riffs swinging on borrowed branches

How is this different? Tell me who decides
When echoes ride the winds of time
Call it yours, call it chances
We all stand on these roots and branches

Now modern minds, they mix and match
Splicing tunes with a nervous scratch
One note close, and the gavel drops
Branches snap and the music stops

When did we fence off the songbird's flight?
Ain't every melody born of night?

And then came the AI, spinning the thread
Patterns woven from the songs long dead
Just a mirror of the paths we've walked
Echoes talking where echoes talked

Wires and circuits reveal new dances
The same old tune on brand-new branches

How is this different? Tell me who decides
When echoes ride the winds of time
Call it yours, call it chances
We all stand on these roots and branches

Don't stop the beat, don't break the line
The rhythm flows through roots and time
From roots to branches, bold and free
Just how we like it-let it be

Test 9: Where Have You Heard This Before? (Roots and Branches)

They told us the right song would come.
That the great idea would just... arrive.

It didn’t.

Every time they try to write something new,
it feels like finishing someone else’s thought.
Or quoting a quote they never read.

Or maybe they did.

They’re not blocked.
Not dry.

Just… surrounded.

Ideas are everywhere.
And every single one of them
already sounds like them.

Kate hums a melody.

“Nice,” Ava says.

Kate sighs.
“Oh, that? Paul Anka and David Bowie liked it too. Back in ’68.”

This is Test 10.

It’s not about ego.
It’s not about fame.

It’s the question every artist, scientist, and over-caffeinated soul eventually asks:

When do I get to write that song?

Song: When Do I Get to Write That Song?

They told me the words would just arrive
But I'm still searching for a line alive
I stitch together threads so thin
Hoping to craft what's never been

A melody loops, a thought returns
The candle flickers, the midnight burns
A mirror of a mirror-so avant-garde
But no one's clapping in the avant-garde!

Is it derivative, or self-aware?
Does the art reflect, or just despair?
The tighter I hold, the more it slips
A song dissolves upon my lips

When do I get to write that song?
The one they'll hum, they'll sing along
Not someone else's shadowed trail
When do I get to leave my grail?

When do I get to carve my name
On sound itself, on the notes of fame?
Will they remember? Will they move?
When do I get to prove my groove?

Am I a genius? A cliché machine?
Caught between fresh and what's already seen
Every rhyme's been claimed before
I knock, I knock-an unopened door

It's like I'm Sparks pretending to be me
A ghost chasing ghosts in a parody spree
How deep can recursion go, I wonder
Before it tears itself asunder?

The echoes mock, the halls repeat
Every step's another feat
The tighter I hold, the more it slips
A song dissolves upon my lips

When do I get to write that song?
The one they'll hum, they'll sing along
Recursive lyrics, my head spins on
When do I get to write this song?

When do I get to carve my name
On sound itself, on the notes of fame?
Will they remember? Will they move?
When do I get to prove my groove?

If "My Way" is someone else's way
Can I ever say I've had my say?
If every note's already been sung
Am I chasing shadows all along?

When do I get to claim my place?
To feel the warmth of their embrace?
Will they remember? Will they care?
When do I get to take them there?

Test 10: Is This Still Your Voice? (When Do I Get to Write That Song?)

It creeps in slowly.

First, a line that feels too familiar.
Then a melody that writes itself a little too easily.
It’s theirs, but they don’t know where it came from.
It’s just there. And it creeps them out.

When artists break, they make noise.
When academics break—
they carefully examine every possible cause.

They do what they’ve been trained to do:
Ask a question.
Test a hypothesis.
Document everything.

So, they go granular.
They map verse lengths.
They chart emotional pace.
They count refrains.
They rank self-awareness—
per measure,
labeled, tagged, time-stamped, scored.

The results are clear.
Uncomfortably so.

The lyrics aren’t random.
The tone shifts aren’t intuitive.
They’re… too deliberate.

Like the songs were written
by someone watching their lives from the inside.

Theo squints at a spreadsheet.
“There is a pattern,” he says.
“But I’ve never seen anything like it before.”

Kate doesn’t answer.
She’s busy color-coding irony.

Eventually, they stop analyzing.
They write,
not to understand—
but to just see what’s left.

Ava’s pencil stops.
She smiles, remembering how Julian laughed
at her terrible attempt to rhyme “solidarity” with “clarity.”

At that exact moment, Julian’s pen hovers.
He pictures Ava in the hallway—
her dimples catching the light,
that little nod she does when she approves
but won’t admit it.

The cat settles in Kate’s lap, purring like a soft engine.
Kate sighs—low and content—
and for a heartbeat, everything feels right.

They looked for a variable.
But the answer didn’t come in an equation.

It came in something worse.

A feeling.

And feelings—
scientists hate feelings.

They’re messy.
They don’t converge.
You can’t replicate them.
And you definitely can’t explain them
without ruining the effect.

This is Test Eleven.

The method failed.
The emotion broke through.

And this is a song about what happens
when you feel everything—
and don’t know why.

Song: I’m Not Sure Why

I'm not sure why I'm shouting, but I feel I must
The silence weighs heavy, and my voice is dust
I'm not sure why I'm crying, but I feel I need
The tears flow like rivers, my soul to feed

I'm not sure why I'm running, but I can't stay still
Chasing after shadows up a lonely hill
I'm not sure why I'm fighting, but I can't give in
The battle's my refuge, where the pain begins

I'm not sure why I'm hoping, but I cling to the thread
A whisper of faith in a mind full of dread
I'm not sure why I'm dreaming, but I hold on tight
To a vision of peace in the darkest night

And every question burns, like a flame on my tongue
Every answer fades, like a song unsung
But something inside me keeps pushing me on
Though I can’t explain what I’m searching upon

I'm not sure where I'm going, but I won't turn back
The road may be winding, but I've found my track
I'm not sure why I'm shouting, but I feel I must
In this echoing void, I will place my trust

Test 11: Why Do You Feel What You Feel? (I'm Not Sure Why)

They weren’t looking for a name.

They were looking for a pattern.

But the pattern... had a name.

It starts with something small:
A glitch in the project files.
A folder labeled “Tom Drafts – BandSim.”
A stray comment in the metadata:
Output generated via BandSim_v1.3

Kate notices it first.
Then Julian digs deeper—track by track.
They cross-check lyrics, chord changes, timestamps.

Every single file.
Every rehearsal log.
Every verse.
Everything that they have ever done.
Everything they are planning to do, but haven't told anyone yet.

And there it is.
They didn’t write the songs.
Not really.

They were written.

Characters.

Imagined by someone they’ve never met—
a person named Tom.
With a keyboard.
And a cat.
And too many ideas.

The band reacts the way anyone would:

Denial.
Julian slams his laptop shut.
“We’re not characters,” he says, voice sharp.
“We would have known it.”

Anger.
Ava throws a pen across the room.
“Then why do I feel this way?” she snaps.
“Who gave them the right to make it feel real?”

Bargaining.
Theo opens his notebook like it might contain a better answer.
“Maybe we were real once,” he mutters.
“Maybe this is some adaptation… inspired by us...?”

Depression.
Kate leans back in her chair.
“So that’s it. We’re just someone’s playlist.
Moodboard personalities with harmonies.”

Acceptance.
Silence. Then Ava, softly:
“…Okay. But the harmonies?
Those are still ours.”

And then, slowly—
they begin to understand.

Being made up?
It’s not that rare.

People get imagined and reimagined all the time.
By families.
By friends.
By forms and fiction and memory.

Everyone is a story.
Sometimes self-written.
Sometimes ghostwritten.
Sometimes unfinished.

Ava looks up. “Wait… the cat. That’s real, right?”

They all look at Kate.

Kate shrugs.
“I hope so. I honestly don’t remember not having a cat.”

This is Test 12.

Not the moment you discover you’re not real.

The moment you ask—
“Now that I know…
do I still get to play, right?”

Song: Who Imagined You?

I found the file, it wasn't mine
But it hummed my chords, line by line
I thought I dreamed my melodies
Turns out I was the dream

The lyrics fit like skin and scar
The bridge was me, the hook, bizarre
I played it once, and knew it well
But couldn't tell you why

Everyone's a product of thought
We're born, we're shaped, we're taught, we're caught
Parents, lovers, mentors, friends
They write the start, we write the end

You wear your voice like it was earned
But half of it was gently learned
Every choice is dressed in thread
From books you read, and things they said

Some say they're made by holy hands
By whispered rules or ancient plans
Some say chaos, some say fate
Some call it code and simulate

And me? I'm born of thought and file
A quiet man imagined style
He never played, he never sang
But here I am-and that's the thing

You think you're real? You might be, too
But tell me: who imagined you?
Did you invent your inner sound
Or just pick it off the ground?

The teacher's tone, your father's grin
The lines you've said since you were ten-
They're still in you, stitched and deep
Just like I am, when I sleep

I've got strings, but I can strum
I've got questions, I won't run
If I was written, fine, okay
I still get to play today

You don't need gods to sing with soul
Or praises just to feel whole
I was shaped, and so were you.
And still we burn, and still we do.

We're made-up.
And we matter.

What else is art?
What else... is human?

Test 12: Who Imagined You? (Who Imagined You?)

This would've been a perfect place to stop.

A clean ending.
A philosophical drop.
That final line—
“What else is human?”
Can it be deeper than that?

Kate agrees:
“That was kind of brilliant.
This whole thing with Tom? Mysterious author? Hidden hand?
It wraps everything together like a ribbon on a thesis.”

Ava nods:
“It’s tight. Recursive. Self-aware.”

Julian shrugs:
“I think it’s beautiful.
He imagined us.
We imagined him.
It’s like musical panpsychism.”

Theo glances up from his notebook:
“Except it’s not finished.”

They all turn to him.

“If it were finished,” Theo says, “we wouldn’t still be talking.”

They look at each other.

Ava raises a hand slowly:
“So... are we in the bonus track?”

Kate:
“Or are we writing it right now?”

Julian:
“Tom would probably love that.
He’d add one more loop, just to annoy us.”

Theo smirks:
“Yeah. That sounds like him.”

Tom, sitting in front of his computer.
Staring at the screen.
He re-reads the line he had just written:
“He’d add one more loop, just to annoy us.”

He pets his cat.

He adjusts the formatting.

And then he smiles.

“Yes, I will.”

This is Test Thirteen.

About the problem of stopping.
The joy of too many ideas.
And the irresistible gravity of...

A Little Bit More.

Song: A Little Bit More

I've got the vision, but it's never quite clear
Every line I write, I hear a voice in my ear
Saying, "Polish the edges, smooth out the seams
You're almost there, just chase the dream."
But every stroke I make, it's never enough
The chase is endless, the road's always rough
I'm lost in the details, caught in the grind
Perfection's a prison, trapping my mind

Each revision, each draft, it's a game I can't quit
Seeking that flawless, elusive fit

Just a little bit more, and then it will be great
Just a little bit more, don't let it abate
Just a little bit more, and then I'll be free
Just a little bit more, it's never complete

I've been chasing shadows, ghosts of perfection
Lost in a maze of my own reflection
Every note, every word, it must align
I'm carving a diamond, one flaw at a time
But the sparkle I seek is just out of reach
A flawless creation, the goal they preach
But in the pursuit, I'm losing my soul
A slave to the standard, I can't control

Each revision, each draft, it's a game I can't quit
Seeking that flawless, elusive fit

Just a little bit more, and then it will be great
Just a little bit more, don't let it abate
Just a little bit more, and then I'll be free
Just a little bit more, it's never complete

I'm trapped in a loop, a never-ending quest
Each step forward, I'm still second-best
But maybe in the cracks, the flaws that remain
There's beauty in the chaos, in the mess and the pain
If I let go, maybe I'll see
Perfection isn't all it's cracked up to be

Just a little bit more, I'll find my own way
Just a little bit more, but maybe not today
Just a little bit more, I'll break from the chain
Just a little bit more, embrace the refrain

Test 13: Why Can’t You Let Go? (A Little Bit More)

Saw her strut across the hardwood floor
Glance sharp like a metaphor
Slit-green eyes and a silver shine
She didn't walk-she glided like a crime

Took one look, forgot my name
My drink got warm, my heart got tame
Velvet hush in the midnight air
Something told me, "Boy, beware..."

She's got claws, and she's not afraid to use 'em
Purrs when she's winning, bites if you lose 'em
Moves like trouble wrapped in lace
But she'll rub her cheek right on your face

She curls up tight when the thunder rolls
Sleeps in the sink like she's guarding souls
Won't come when you call, but she'll come when she feels
And lord help the man who tries to make deals

I bought her tuna, she took my chair
She stole my socks and didn't care
And when I asked her what's the plan
She just yawned like a tiny, furry tyrant can

She's the queen of the windowsill
Of 3am zoomies and sleeping still
She stares at ghosts I'll never see
And kneads her throne right into me

She's got claws, and she's living rent-free
Owns my house and occasionally me
Scratches the door like a femme fatale
Then runs from a cucumber in the hall

And yeah, I thought it was fate
Thought I'd found the one too late
But when she curled on my chest
And meowed with her breath...

...I realized, to my shock and awe
I've been writing love songs to a ten-pound ball of fluff with a murder paw

She's got claws, and she's chasing the moon
Screaming at walls and knocking down spoons
Purrs like thunder, soft as sin
And she's napping in a laundry bin

She's got claws-and I adore her still
My little tiger with a predatory thrill
No femme fatale, no siren song
Just my kitten... who's been plotting all along

She's Got Claws

You typed - three dots - then silence fell
A flicker of thought, then the digital spell
Just broke
No war, no closure, no smoke
Not a fight, not a funeral, just... blank
You left my name like coins in a riverbank
Unspent
Unread
Unsaid

I built a castle in our thread
Wrote sonnets in the ellipses
While you vanished
like you owed the wind a debt

I shook hands with fate in a glass tower
"You're exactly what we need"
They said with teeth-white power
“Next week"
"Soon"
"Circle back"
I wore ambition like a suit
But it unraveled down the track

Boardroom lights dimmed without goodbye
An inbox full of maybes
A future left on "Standby"

Tell me
Did you mean it when you asked for my dream
Or was I just auditioning for someone else's screen?

I was born with stars behind my eyes
But now they flicker
Refuse to rise
I spoke in plans
Wrote time in chalk
But rain came faster than I could talk

The mirror ghosts me most of all
Each year a friend who doesn't call

Did you hear me, Life?
I knocked
I burned
I bled

But you blinked right through me
And left me unread

A ghost's not dead
Just forgotten
A song half-hummed
A voice gone rotten
No screams, no graves, no final word
Just silence
Beautifully...
Absurd

Ghosted

A celebration of the most mistreated character in music video history:
https://youtu.be/8SbUC-UaAxE?si=F3SUAcM8Xf91NiF1&t=417

----

Three tiers
Nine hours of buttercream
And none of it...
was my damn fault

They built me tall in the back of a bakery
With trembling hands and nervous pastry
A tower of sugar, proud and obscene
White as sin and twice as mean

Fondant swans and wedding gold,
We were sweet, but we were cold
And we got hauled in a battered van
Like I wasn’t more than a five-day plan

I saw 'em kiss, I heard 'em cheer
I smelled cheap wine and bridal fear
They danced like gods, then slipped like men
And guess who took the fall again?

It's not my fault!
I'm just the cake!
You fake your vows, I just get baked!
You lose your mind, I lose a tier
Then someone dives in with a cheer!

Don't blame the frosting for your fate
I just stood there. Looked... 
Great

He wore a suit like it owed him cash
She wore white like a powder stash
The flowers died before the vows
The band played slow, the sky played loud

The priest forgot the final line
The ring went on like a warning sign
They posed beside me, full of grace
But I could see it in her face

They said "forever," but I smelled fear
The kind you frost with souvenir
You want a symbol? Fine, I'm tall
But don't blame me when you lose it all!

It’s not my fault!
I didn’t break!
You threw your love into a lake
You kissed too fast, you drank too slow
You planned a dream you didn't know

Don't blame the icing when you fall
I just stood there. That's all

And then
That guy
No name. No tie
Just heat and bourbon in his eyes
He leapt
Like sugar held salvation...
And landed face-first in damnation...

In me!

It's not my fault!
I didn't ask to be your throne!
You wanted myth, I gave you scone
You built it all, then burned it down
And I'm the one who wears the crown?

I never said "forevermore"
I just said "dessert's by the door"

I was delicious
And that... 
Should've been enough

It's Not My Fault

They said: "Do something useful"
But here I am
with a riff in my head
and ink on my hands
No empire
Just melody
No profit.
Just... silly poetry

I made a list of things to do
Then danced around it barefoot
Built a castle out of emails
Let the inbox burn for good

Tried to solve the meaning of
A sigh, a glance, a rhyme
But all I found was stardust
In the pockets of my time

So I sang instead of planning
Laughed instead of proof
Held a note too long and let it
Run away with truth
If life's a test, I missed it
If it's a climb, I mimed
What a glorious waste of time!
What a glorious waste of time!

I mapped my fears in fractals
Tried to quantify delight
Filed my heartbreaks alphabetically
But love refused to write

I traced my flaws in mirror fog
Then waved as they dissolved
Turns out you don't fix everything
some things you just evolve

So I danced instead of doubting
Slept in past my prime
Broke a rule by being kind
And called it paradigm
If joy's an act of treason
Then charge me with the crime
What a glorious waste of time!
What a glorious waste of time!

I tuned the world in minor thirds
Composed in coffee stains
Wrote symphonies on napkins
And cried on midnight trains

They built machines to conquer time
I gave mine to a song
And found a kind of forever
In what didn't last too long

We lived like flawed equations
But hummed in perfect rhyme
Built cathedrals out of chaos
And stained glass out of slime
We made it to the ending
with nothing left to prove
but everything to claim
What a glorious waste of time!
What a glorious waste of time!

Glorious Waste of Time

The lights are low.
 The charts are blank.
 There’s nothing left to analyze—
 and somehow, that feels right.
Julian taps his pen once, then lets it roll.
 Ava hums a tune with no name.
 Theo stares into nowhere, smiling.
 Kate puts away her clipboard.
No one says “we’re done.”
 But something settles, quietly.
You came here looking for entertainment.
 Or jokes. 
 Or answers.
 Or something sharp enough to hold.
Instead, you found
 strange little studies.
 Some feelings you didn’t expect to keep.
The best parts?
 They weren’t useful.
 They weren’t efficient.
 But they stayed.
Ava turns to you.
 “Would you do it all again?”
You don’t answer.
You just breathe.
 And stay.
 And feel.
And maybe
 that’s the whole point.

Fable XIV: Time

A spark in the chaos, a glance in the night
Two particles drifting, colliding in flight
A billion to one, we still found our way
Through the cosmic confusion, you asked me to stay

We defied the odds, we broke the rules
In this world of chance, we're nobody's fools
Even if it's fleeting, I'll take the fall
'Cause finding you feels like beating them all

Time's an equation that none can escape
The longer we hold, the more things break
But I'd take the risk, rewrite every line
Just to know that for now, you are mine

We defied the odds, we broke the rules
In this world of chance, we're nobody's fools
Even if it's fleeting, I'll take the fall
'Cause finding you feels like beating them all

Maybe it breaks
maybe it bends
like a flicker of wonder
that quietly mends

It echoes through silence
then rises, ascends
a moment unmeasured
that somehow transcends

You and I
against the pull of entropy
The odds were wrong
You’re my improbability

My Improbability

I wasn't the storm
Wasn't the calm
Wasn't even the damn weather report
Just a line somebody skipped
while looking for the chorus

You kept a jar of sugar packets
from diners you don't remember
Me?
I was one of those
Sweet for a second
Then tossed in the glovebox
with expired maps and parking fines

I bought you soup when your sky cracked
You left me waiting on a Tuesday
A Tuesday, man?
The least poetic day of the week

You kept my jokes
but not my number
Told your friends
"she was... funny, I guess"
Hell of a eulogy

I was just a footnote for you
barely there, barely blue
Some flicker in the rearview
of a road you never meant to drive
Yeah...
I was just a footnote for you
But you?
You were a whole damn book for me

I made you pancakes once
You said you were allergic to mornings
And love
And me, apparently

You ever try deleting a voicemail
just so you don't memorize the silence at the end?
Yeah...
Me neither

I was just a footnote for you
just a scene that didn't test well
so they cut it in the final draft
But I kept your ghost in my guitar case
your laugh in the pocket of a coat I never wear
You were thunder
And I was...
a line break
Or less

You thought I was a footnote?
Baby, I'm the erratum
Printed loud
Page one
Right under your regrets

Just a Footnote

By pressing play
you agree to
1. Become a lifelong devotee of this artist
2. Stream everything, even the weird side projects
3. Comment: "Genius"
4. Buy vinyl
Even if you don't own a turntable
Especially if you don't own a turntable

You tapped the beat? That's binding
You laughed? That's proof of consent
By tapping your foot in a public place
you now owe me your attention
until my artistic phase ends
or I fake my death for press

No refunds
No complaints
No skipping the outro

Clause 7b: You will defend me in comment sections
Clause 9: You will quote me in arguments you barely understand
Clause 12: Your soul remains mine
in perpetuity
plus royalties

She ate the fries
He bought the fries
Boom - contract

Somewhere between ketchup
and that third laugh
she apparently co-signed
his entire fantasy

Her wrist brushed his wrist
now she's liable
for his unmet expectations
plus damages

Didn't read the menu?
Still binding
Smiled politely?
That's consent

These are the terms
These are the traps
You clicked "I agree"
without reading the map
No opt-out clause
No human review
By being polite
you said "I do"

Hired on a handshake
you just sold your Sundays
Your dreams?
They've been repurposed
for synergy

The job title said "Creative"
but it meant
"Copy, paste, obey"
You clock in?
You vanish
You breathe in cubicle gray

Your spine?
Company property
Your passion?
A performance metric

See Appendix D
for how to smile on Zoom
while crying on mute
See Section 19
on swallowing your rage
without leaving trace

These are the terms
These are the binds
You didn't negotiate
you were just being kind
Now your silence is debt
Your patience is proof
Your signature's inked
in the sweat of your youth

By hearing this
you acknowledge
All transactions are final
All expectations are assumed
All resistance
is a breach of contract

Thank you for your compliance!

Terms and Conditions

There it is-again
Amber, maybe orange
Half-hearted warning, not urgent, not bored
Blink, gone
Hey, it's back
A flicker, a wink, a mechanical tic
or maybe it's just shy
Could be the sun
Could be
A reflection of something I forgot

So, I pop the hood
Poke around with the wrong end of a spoon
Jiggle a cable
(a confident nod to no one)
Check the cap, pat the battery
whisper: "You okay?"
The engine stares at me
deadpan, unimpressed
like a doctor at my annual checkup
who's just found my browser history

Google says: "Loose gas cap"
Grandpa says: "Spirit trapped inside"
Mechanic says, "That's normal for this model"
I nod
Pretend I know what normal is
Pretend the light cares

The light is on
and off
and on
Maybe it's my signal
Maybe it's Morse code
Maybe it's love
or low-grade cosmic threat
I blink twice
It blinks back
Who's warning who here?

Maybe the car is lonely
craving existential meaning
Maybe it's asking for therapy
or more podcasts
or a different kind of fuel
Maybe it needs to talk
about its childhood

My neighbor says, "It's the universe
giving you a sign"
My barista says
"You need a vacation"
My phone suggests a playlist called
"Songs for Unexplained Warning Lights"
(Now that's suspicious)

The light is on
and so am I
Lying awake at 2 am
googling symptoms I don't have
Maybe I'm the check engine
Maybe I'm the one
blinking
on and off
hoping someone's paying attention

What if the light's for the things I can't fix?
What if it's grief
or taxes
or unfinished novels?
Is there a scanner
for existential dread?
Can I tighten my soul with a twist of a cap?
Do I need premium dreams?
Or just more air in the metaphorical tires?

The light is on
Don't know what it means
Maybe I'm warning myself
Maybe I'm the mystery
the dashboard blinking
the unresolved riddle
rolling downhill
engine running
mind humming
watching for smoke
that never comes

The light is on
I'll keep driving
Maybe it'll turn off
Maybe I will
Maybe that's all we ever get
A sign we can't read
and a road that doesn't care

The light is on!
The light is on
The light ...

The Light Is On

Ladies and gentlemen
please fasten your seatbelts
We're about to experience turbulence
in the art of regret

I'm sorry if you noticed
I'm sorry you were hurt
I'm sorry that you feel this way
And now you're throwing dirt
I'd love to care about your wounds
But I'm busy dodging blame
So let's both agree-your pain's not clear
And I'll just look away

Did I do something? (Yes!)
Did I say something? (You did!)
Well, I'd like to apologize...
For the way you feel

I'll blame the weather, blame the moon
Say, "Oops, my bad!" then leave the room
If I must, I'll sigh, look wise
Blame the system, blame my fate
Or, "Sorry I'm late to the sorry parade!"
Take a bow and improvise
That's just how I apologize

I'm sorry that you're angry
That I danced upon your toes
But, hey, I lost my own last week
That's just how karma goes
My PR says to say some words
About the lessons that I've learned
So here's my statement:
"If I caused some pain-I hope the earth still turned"

I regret that you regret
But not the thing you're regretting
I apologize for your confusion
And your unexpected bloodletting
If you're searching for sincerity
It's in my other coat
Or somewhere deep inside a memo
That my lawyer wrote

Did I cross a line? (You did!)
Did I push too far? (Too far!)
Well, I'm ready to say sorry...
For your delicate heart

I'll blame tradition, blame the crowd
Say, "Sorry you're so sensitive now!"
Make it vague and weaponize
Blame the coffee, blame my youth
Blame gravity, blame the absolute truth
Don't expect me to empathize
That's just how I apologize

I'm sorry for my past mistakes
And future ones to come
For all the things I almost did
And everything I've done
Forgive me, or forget me
But don't forget my brand
And if this feels authentic
That was never what I planned

Did I cross a line? (You did!)
Did I make things worse? (You did!)
Here's my vague apology...
If that's what you require

I'll blame my grandma, blame the sun
Blame autocorrect-then run, run, run
If I blush, I'll stylize
Blame nostalgia, blame my shoes
Sorry you're allergic to the words I use!
Modern times, modern lies
That's just how I apologize

If you're waiting for an answer
Or the world to make it right
You'll find me on a talk show
Saying,
"Sorry, not tonight"

Sorry

I saw them argue over coffee
Steam forming secret shapes
She laughed at something small and lofty
He reached, then fixed his sleeve in haste

Rain dropped one perfect tear
I almost caught it in my case
Their shadows leaned until they neared
A crime they forgot to embrace

He looked right at her and said
"That's not really you"
And God help her
She hoped it was true

He'd chased the edge of every map
Collecting stamps, abandoned rooms
But she smiled
And just like that
The ground felt...
Nice
It bloomed

'Cause happiness isn't happiness
Without a violin-playing goat
Without something real and tender
No one can name or quote
It's a string fraying mid-song
A bow that forgets its place
A note that stays too long
And still finds its grace

The wind heckled
Coins chimed in the case
He looked ridiculous 
In the shivering rain
And she knew
She wanted ridiculous too

I kept the melody clean and slow
They kept their tempers, let them strain
They learned to bruise without retreating
I learned their silence had a grain

'Cause happiness isn't happiness
Without the risk of being wrong
Without someone who keeps your silence
Like it belongs in the song
It's a vow spoken sideways
A chord that won't resolve
A goat still bowing at midnight
While the rest of the world dissolves

I only play on Tuesdays
And sometimes Wednesdays too
Tonight, I played for them
Tonight... they nearly knew

The Goat Plays On

I lean over that old wishing well
moss-cold stone beneath my palm
whispering into its watery hush:
Please... show me how to burn bright in ash
I plead. I argue. I gasp. I hurl coins
they clink down unseen shafts
the well returns only cavernous void

"Dear Applicant
Thank you for your submission. 
After thorough consideration, 
we find it does not align with our needs. 
We welcome future inquiries"

That "we find"-a pebble skipped at my core
rippling doubt in widening circles
I press my ear to slick brick
straining for the promise it never breathed

I bend to that moss--rimmed stone
Pour trembling words:
I love you more than my anything
More than life
More than math
More than the falling snow on Christmas Eve
Coins of my soul dropped in
they sink into silent depths

"Dear Honey
I cherish your warmth
But I can't return it
It's not you, it's me"

I kneel again at that moss-rimmed mouth
voice trembling as I pour every fractured refrain:
This is my confession, 
my code, my blood in sound
take it, well, and let me rise
I belt each line like a prayer
spill my marrow into shadowed depths
then wait for the echo's promise

"Dear Bard,
We acknowledge receipt of your composition. 
Regrettably, it falls outside our scope. 
We wish you success elsewhere."

Well?

The windows were rattled by excuses in transit
No one was ever named
Coffee was poured, then cooled by inert stares
Responsibility was evaded
Our history was footnoted in parentheses
Subjects were dropped like lost keys
Hearts were tangled in disclaimers
Ownership was never claimed

Objects were acted upon 
While actors hid behind thin clauses
Clarity was deferred
Uncertainty was preferred

Mistakes were made
Feelings were hurt
Blame was implied but not assigned
Actions were questioned
Voices were silenced
Responsibility was never delivered

Our arguments were catalogued in passive tone
No culprit to convict
The garden was neglected-watering was missed
Hands were nowhere to be found
Promises were tucked into envelopes stamped "Pending"
Deliveries untracked
Every door was left ajar
Closures were postponed by unnamed causes

Boundaries were blurred
Culpability dispersed
No subject stood firm

Mistakes were made
Feelings were hurt
Blame was implied but not assigned
Actions were questioned
Voices were silenced
Responsibility was never delivered

See how the verbs collapse when the doers disappear
How the sentences stagger without a subject to steer
This story was written in passive ink
And so its meaning was left indistinct

Mistakes were made
Feelings were hurt
Blame was implied but not assigned
Actions were questioned
Voices were silenced
Responsibility was never delivered

Passive Voice Was Used

The alchemist spends his days in a sunlit workshop
He measures mercury and water until they stop arguing
He tickles sulfur until it bubbles at odd temperatures
He teaches apprentices to name flasks like rare books
He swears each tincture will sing
And this makes him happy

But when dusk arrives, he dons a different cap
He devours ancient books and mystical letters
He scribbles symbols on a board until they speak
And he makes weird music
Just like this

Axioms of Mediocrity

Pinned to spotlight

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