For millions of years, our species teetered on the brink of extinction. Our survival instinct, it seems, allowed us to weather this difficult period, incidentally causing several mass extinctions of other species, including probably our Neanderthal cousins. A serial killer was born: Homo sapiens. Now, we are threatened by overpopulation and obesity. This primitive brain that once saved us has become a burden of selfishness and aggression, obstacles to the empathy and sociability we so desperately need today.

The Dark Side Of The Man

Dark Insider

Lyrics:

Morning cuts through blinds.
Cold mug on the sink.
I call your names—
the house won’t blink.

One plate. Three chairs.
All wrong.
One month. One breath.
Still gone.

I wake up reaching—nothing there.
Pillow flat, like you never slept.
A tiny shoe by the door,
a toy car under steps.
Fridge hum, clock talks,
I stand still, listening.
I swear I hear you—
then silence pulls the string.

I try that lie: “They stepped outside.”
It breaks the moment that I breathe.
My hands start shaking on their own—
like they remember what I leave.

Why do I wake to an empty home?
Why does the day feel made of stone?
Your voices used to warm these rooms—
now every song comes out in fumes.
I reach for you in what we were,
but memory stings, then starts to blur.
Tell me how I’m still alive
when you’re not coming back.

Not—back. (Not back.)
No—laugh. (No laugh.)
Just—me. (Just me.)
All—gone. (All gone.)
One plate, three chairs—
all wrong.
One month, one breath—
still gone.

I move slow, offbeat steps,
like reggae in my bones.
But the rhythm hits a wall
when I’m dancing alone.
Your scarf still on the hook,
smells like rain and soap.
That’s the closest that I get
to anything like hope.
I open up the drawer—
kid drawings, crooked sun.
My name spelled all wrong…
and I come undone.

It doesn’t hit like lightning—
it leaks in, frame by frame.
Wet road. White lines.
And my chest says your name.

Why do I wake to an empty home?
Why does the day feel made of stone?
Your voices used to warm these rooms—
now every song comes out in fumes.
I reach for you in what we were,
but memory stings, then starts to blur.
Tell me how I’m still alive
when you’re not coming back.

No—return. (No return.)
No—time. (No time.)
Just—this. (Just this.)
Still—mine. (Still mine.)
One plate, three chairs—
all wrong.
One month, one breath—
still gone.

Headlights bloom in rain,
too bright, too close, too fast.
Backseat laughter—then
a moment snapped in half.
Your voice: “Slow down, love.”
My hands: white on the wheel.
A horn, a blur, a spin—
then nothing I can feel.
I wake to hospital light,
strangers saying “you survived.”
They called it “lucky,”
and I swallowed that lie.

Now every sunrise feels like theft,
every breath a borrowed loan.
I’m the one that stayed behind—
I don’t know how to be alone.

I go back to that bend of road,
stand where the guardrail sings.
If love could trade the future out,
I’d give up everything.
One more “Are we there yet?”
One more backseat fight.
But the world keeps moving on—
and leaves me with the night.

Why do I wake to an empty home?
Why does the day feel made of stone?
Your voices used to warm these rooms—
now every song comes out in fumes.
I reach for you in what we were,
but memory stings, then starts to blur.
Tell me how I’m still alive
when you’re not coming back.

One plate. Three chairs.
All wrong.
One month. One breath.
Still gone.
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Track: Gone Like Shadows
Lyrics: NTENSEIFIED
Music & Vocals: NTENSEIFIED, Linda Charles
Produced By: NTENSEIFIED

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