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A recorded reading of “Threshold Logic”. If the player does not load, use the original audio source.
I stood at the lip of a circle, glowing like a thought God forgot to bury— and the void looked back with no eyes, just the hush of a question I had no language to answer. You ever meet your own silence and realise it’s been talking this whole damn time? I was knee-deep in nothingness, but it held me like memory— soft, then sudden. Like maybe forgetting is a kind of forgiveness. Like maybe names were never meant to outlive the mouths that made them. I called out: Who am I if no one remembers? The circle pulsed. The echo returned: Who are you when you forget? The floor was a mirror. My feet: two truths trembling over the fiction of form. And I thought— maybe I’m not the shadow or the light, but the thin, trembling seam between them. The crack that lets the maybe in. And what is a body but borrowed geometry? A circle walks in, leaves a square behind— some box I built for certainty, too heavy to carry, too scared to open. I keep thinking clarity is a lighthouse. But maybe it’s fog that chooses to let you through. Maybe answers aren’t the end of the question— just punctuation trying to pass as purpose. And in that breathless blue, between shape and shimmer, I remembered: I am the question mark walking, the pause with legs, the paradox praying for rain.
Lyrics
I stood at the lip of a circle, glowing like a thought God forgot to bury— and the void looked back with no eyes, just the hush of a question I had no language to answer. You ever meet your own silence and realise it’s been talking this whole damn time? I was knee-deep in nothingness, but it held me like memory— soft, then sudden. Like maybe forgetting is a kind of forgiveness. I called out: Who am I if no one remembers? The circle pulsed. The echo returned: Who are you when you forget? The floor was a mirror. My feet: two truths trembling over the fiction of form. And I thought— maybe I’m not the shadow or the light, but the thin, trembling seam between them. I keep thinking clarity is a lighthouse. But maybe it’s fog that chooses to let you through. Maybe answers aren’t the end of the question— just punctuation trying to pass as purpose. And in that breathless blue, between shape and shimmer, I remembered: I am the question mark walking, the pause with legs, the paradox praying for rain.
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