[Intro]
[Low electrical hum]
[One distant metallic hit]
My father kept
his old punch card
in a kitchen drawer.
Thirty-two years
of arriving on time
reduced to
a piece of paper.
[Kick enters]
[Verse 1]
The factory closed
before I was old enough
to understand
why grown men
stood outside the gate
with their hands in their pockets
and nowhere to clock in.
Nobody cried.
That part stayed with me.
They smoked.
They talked about weather.
One man laughed
too loudly.
My father came home
earlier than usual
and fixed a chair
that wasn't broken.
I asked him:
“You off today?”
He said:
“Something like that.”
Years later
I understood
how much dignity
can fit
inside three words.
[Instrumental Passage]
[FM bass]
[Cold chord stabs]
[Voice fragment]
Something like that.
[Hook]
MACHINE HEART.
KEEP THE TIME.
EVEN WHEN
THE LINE GOES DARK.
MACHINE HEART.
HOLD THE SPARK.
SOME MEN LOSE THE FACTORY.
SOME MEN LOSE
THE NAME THEY HAD INSIDE IT.
[Verse 2]
I work nights now.
Different building.
Same fluorescent light.
Badge in.
Badge out.
Computer knows
when I arrive.
Computer knows
when I leave.
It doesn't know
I sometimes sit in the car
for seven minutes
before turning the key.
No music.
No phone.
Just my hands
on the steering wheel
and the sound
of cooling metal.
There are tired people
you can recognize
without speaking.
Security guard.
Cleaner.
Bus driver
at the red light.
We look at each other
like members
of a club
nobody applied for.
[Drop]
[Kick disappears]
[Only low pulse]
[Voice]
The city doesn't sleep.
Somebody is always
keeping it alive.
[Kick returns]
[Hook]
MACHINE HEART.
KEEP THE TIME.
EVEN WHEN
THE LINE GOES DARK.
MACHINE HEART.
HOLD THE SPARK.
SOME MEN LOSE THE FACTORY.
SOME MEN LOSE
THE NAME THEY HAD INSIDE IT.
[Verse 3]
There is an old plant
by the river
with broken windows
and grass
growing through concrete.
Someone painted
a bright blue bird
across one wall.
I pass it every morning
when the sky
starts changing color.
For years
I thought the bird looked stupid.
Too alive.
Too clean.
Too hopeful
for that building.
Now I like it.
Maybe because
the wall didn't ask
to become beautiful.
Someone just decided
ruin
wasn't the only thing
that belonged there.
[Long Instrumental Section]
[Arpeggiator slowly opens]
[Strings enter]
[Voice fragments]
Badge in.
Badge out.
Breathe.
Go home.
Come back.
[Bridge]
My father still keeps
that punch card.
Not framed.
Not displayed.
Just sitting
under old receipts
and batteries
that probably don't work.
I asked him once
why he never threw it away.
He said:
“So I remember
I was there.”
Not:
“I worked there.”
Not:
“They closed it.”
Just:
“I was there.”
And maybe
that's what we want
from all this noise.
Proof
that before the machines
forgot us...
we existed.
[Final Build]
[909 snare roll]
[FM bass rises]
[Analog pads widen]
[Final Hook]
MACHINE HEART.
DON'T GO QUIET.
NOT YET.
MACHINE HEART.
KEEP ONE LIGHT
BEHIND THE GLASS.
LET THE BUILDINGS EMPTY.
LET THE JOBS CHANGE NAMES.
LET THE BADGES STOP WORKING.
LET THE MACHINES
LEARN SOMEONE ELSE'S HANDS.
BUT KEEP SOMETHING.
A CARD.
A SCAR.
A STORY.
A NAME.
Something that says:
I was here.
[Outro]
[Kick fades]
[Electrical hum remains]
Tomorrow morning
I’ll badge out.
Sit in the car.
Seven minutes.
Maybe six.
Then drive home
past the blue bird
on the broken wall.
