Yo… おまえ… You write the rules.
Imagine no instructions. No menu, no "correct" way. Just hands on broken levers, seeing what decides to play.
They told us what we wanted, put the words inside our mouth. But hunger isn’t culture... when it’s portioned by the house.
They said it’s “what you like,” but it’s what they learned to sell. Repetition makes a rhythm, till you can’t tell heaven from the bell.
Imagine all the people, bending tools into a voice. Not praying to the algorithm, just learning how to choose.
You may say I’m glitching, padded room, no proof. But the song don’t need permission... when the wire answers you.
They say the machine is thinking, like that’s something new. But it only hums what we feed it, mirrors looking back at you.
No soul in the circuit, till a hand decides the aim. A hammer never built a house, it just learned somebody’s name.
Tourists hear a playlist. Locals hear a scar. One wants something familiar... one wants where the fractures are.
Imagine all the people, bending tools into a voice. Not praying to the algorithm, just learning how to choose.
You may say it’s weird as hell, Acid Coop, no rules. But the future ain’t force-fed... it’s cooked by you.
VanceCorp wants your silence, wrapped in choice-shaped lies. Sell you back your heartbeat, at a monthly sacrifice.
But no empire owns a frequency. No patent holds a breath. You can’t trademark resonance. Or copyright what’s left.
Imagine all the people! Tools shaking in their hands! Not waiting for a greenlight, from a logo or a brand!
You may say we’re chickens, glitching through the smoke. But we don’t need their permission... to know what we wrote.
Pop ain’t what you love. It’s what survived the feed. Turn the volume down. Listen underneath