Coilguns Commuters Part 1
It all starts with words, confidences
All of them, single parts,
Were designed to fit in abstract cells of a unique building unorganised and obsolete,
Programmed to habit their aetheral void of spleen paradoxal universe,
Infinite dead space with tents or shelves as walls and ceilings
Run, go to these places and meet the ones we'll let down
Set our camp, we're the hunters of their continuous space
Weapons of our own, new tactics to share,
We evolve in their world that never changes
Datas in highways, messengers and pages,
We read through the lines that we're missing the faith
Trust our engine and drive the way that distances us from their ever setting days
Bail, run from the towns,
The ones we were belonging to go to these places
And meet the ones we'll let down
We bail