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The speaker describes “Excavation Pro,” killing the “old me” and digging six feet down to find not a coffin but a reflection—confronting their fears without flinching and declaring, “This is your funeral.” They write that they stopped being “medicine” and became “fangs,” letting venom in the vein and making those who crossed them “nauseous.” Apologies don’t work; forgiveness is the antidote but the speaker has “got none left.” They repeatedly warn that the “new layer” underneath is “flawless and dangerous,” leaving dead versions behind and harvesting what was planted. The speaker also frames the change through shedding skin and leaving “letters” for everyone who failed them, folding names into paper squares, dropping them in a box without tears, and burying what they never said. They address “dad,” “mom,” “ex,” “friend,” and “older me,” including themes of never having a home, being alone, love like a tax, vanishing in cold wind, and learning that begging is a curse. They emphasize emptying weight, releasing themselves, and refusing closure or peace owed to others—choosing self-distance and self-release. They describe mental health as the best thing they ever hoarded, turning rented space in their head into vacancies by evicting a ghost. They reject “living in” what hurt them, urge “stop living in it,” and describe recognizing deception: circling fake ones, sniffing out “serpents,” smiling while blades sharpen, and watching hunters become fleeing fish. They claim they don’t save those who pushed them off the deck, calling it overdue and leaving “deep blue silence” as what the other person will see. The speaker then shifts to work at midnight, digging plots for those who plotted their collapse, saying time is approved by their own hands, with references checked under nails and being hired by themselves to settle “scales.” They finish shifts with “one less trade or unmade,” denying mercy because the position is filled by the rebuilt self. They later describe a “glitch” in their mind—waking to an unwanted text and repeating a “same story, different person.” Though on the surface they are a “king,” underneath they are a kid still fighting hidden trauma. They reference using “Xanny for the panic,” “Whiskey for the silence,” and headphones max to drown out violence, saying the war is in their skull. At 40-plus, they say they’re still not whole, questioning whether they’re broken, bent, or permanently wired wrong. They describe praying until knees bruise, talking to “fools” and demons, and progress bars that stop at 90%. Their ex, mom, and doctor label them “too much,” “too sensitive,” and prescribe meds—yet they remain “still breathing, still bleeding, still processing the stat,” ending with “System fail.”

I am very tired of saying goodbye. When I look inside, I see a lot of things. Let's take a look.

I feel scared when I see the expression in your eyes. I want to say goodbye, but sometimes I want to fight. I need you now and I need you even more if you hold on.

I recall the moment I lost my mind. There was a certain comfort in that place, where even emotions resonated in the vastness. When I was carefree, I felt disconnected from reality.

Excavation Pro describes living with overwhelming sensitivity and choosing to seal off those feelings. He says every cut went to the bone, every loss, every silence, leading to building “a door to nothing where that feeling just stays closed.” He now watches life with sounds muted, noting that his mother never calls “you sound different” and that his love for life is gone. He distinguishes this from depression or a crisis, describing a flat line as the piece and a life where “the volume’s down so low that even chaos seems to cease,” making it hard to feel real. He explains that it’s easier than feeling when the heart is fully numb, and that asking what he wants or needs yields silence while he digs his own grave. Relationships drift past, like ships, as he becomes “the afterimage fading to escape.” He speaks of quiet as addictive, with no highs to crash or lows to hide from, and he shrugs, saying he’s fine while burying emotion. The flat line remains the centerpiece; even chaos seems to cease as motion and emotion strain his chest. He admits that missing takes emotion where pain wants to exist, so he keeps the dial buried in static, opening the channel only to let pain exist briefly, then retreating. He describes living fast because the clock felt short, making choices as if tomorrow would abort. He didn’t save, plan, or belong to a world that cared, surviving on scams and borrowing time, breaths, and days he didn’t earn. Now at 30 with nowhere left to turn, he faces a future he didn’t prepare for or expect, with no road map or five-year plan, just the shock of existing. He compares himself to friends on five-year tracks with mortgages and children, while he sees years that won’t come back. He reflects on others who seem to know they’ll be where they are, who have roots and growth, while he never planted roots because he assumed the ground would shake and never said forever because forever felt fake. He feels like a self-destructed scheme, disoriented, standing in a future he never thought he’d do. Each birthday feels less like cake and more like death, as if stealing from a timeline that already left. He notes the looming question of what he’ll do with a life he didn’t plan, and describes borrowed time, quitting, and leaving as his only mastered skills. He contrasts a version of himself who didn’t have his habits, hollow gaze, and guarded love with a stranger’s kiss and a family that calls, not to borrow, but to trauma dump. He recognizes that he’s the one who holds the raft up for everyone else, while his own walls crumble and no one sees the strain. He presents himself as a person who shows up for others, keeping the cracks hidden, ensuring the illusion of control remains intact. He acknowledges multiple versions—at work, with friends, family, lovers—none of which truly feel like him. He ends with the image that he’s the only one who carried home the fight, a ghost in the world, while others move on, leaving him to bear the weight alone.

The passage presents a stark, embedded battle with torment and a desperate attempt at salvation. It opens with a vivid image: “Canvas where the demons paint,” implying that inner fears or malevolent forces are actively crafting the speaker’s experience on some metaphorical surface. This creative frame leads to the sense of a silent scream, described as “A silent scream, curdle,” which conveys pain becoming concentrated or viscous, perhaps growing intolerable. The next line, “The soul does faint,” reinforces a collapse of spirit under pressure, while the comparison to the ordinary “regular average human ache” suggests that what the speaker endures elevates common suffering into something extreme or transcendent in its intensity. The following line—“This is the sound of the final bone about to break”—culminates the buildup with a moment of imminent fracture, signaling a peak of physical or existential strain. A transition then occurs to an intervention: the speaker describes a cure being introduced as “They inject a cure, a silver swarm.” The cure is personified as a swarm forged of silver, a striking image that implies precision, brightness, and perhaps antiseptic or otherworldly properties. This cure resides within the speaker as it is described to “night[s] in my veins,” using the word “nights” (likely intended as “lights” or a possessive form) to suggest the cure dwells inside the bloodstream, offering warmth and reassurance, “keeping me warm.” The cure’s effect is framed as corrective, with the phrase “Sit that fixed a glitch,” indicating the intervention corrects a malfunction or disruption within the speaker. The culmination is “terminal grief squinched,” a compact clause portraying a drastic suppression or a closing off of terminal, unendurable sorrow. Across these lines, the cure is presented as both physical and emotional relief, a solution that halts or reverses the breakdown described earlier. In sum, the text moves from a visceral depiction of relentless inner turmoil and impending rupture to a transformative intervention: a silver, vein-dwelling cure that dispels the glitch and confines terminal grief, restoring a sense of warmth and stability after the extremity of the speaker’s pain. The imagery blends medical precision with mythic, almost ritual overtones, underscoring the dramatic shift from breakdown to tentative restoration.

Speaker 0 describes a vivid, dreamlike scene in which “Canvas where the demons paint” serves as a backdrop for interior torment. The imagery of a “silent scream” and something that “curdle” conveys a deeply held distress, while the line “The soul does faint” suggests a gradual loss of vitality or hope. This sequence is equated with the ordinary ache experienced by a regular, average human, implying that extreme inner suffering can resemble common pain in its intensity, even as the description emphasizes that this is a heightened, haunting instance. The speaker marks the moment as “the sound of the final bone about to break,” signaling a threshold or breaking point—an imminent rupture or collapse that is imminent and defining. The passage then shifts to a response or intervention. “They inject a cure, a silver swarm, that nights in my veins keeping me warm” introduces an external remedy described as a cure, delivered by a “silver swarm.” The action of injection places the cure inside the body, and the phrase “that nights in my veins keeping me warm” personifies the cure as a living, circulating presence within the bloodstream, one that provides warmth and solace. This cure is framed as corrective or restorative, addressing the crisis suggested in the earlier lines. The final portion, “Sit that fixed a glitch, terminal grief squinched,” presents the cure as fixing a problem described as a “glitch.” The word “fixed” indicates restoration or stabilization of a disrupted system—potentially the mind, the body, or the emotional state. The term “terminal grief squinched” conveys a sense of grief that could be overwhelming or perpetual, yet the curing action is presented as having compromised or reduced its force. Taken together, these lines outline a sequence: an overwhelming internal struggle depicted through surreal imagery, followed by an explicit intervention described as a cure that resides within the veins and provides warmth, ultimately resolving a malfunction and softening or constraining profound grief. Overall, the passage traces a movement from acute, almost cosmic suffering to an internal remedy that both resides in the body and alters the trajectory of the speaker’s emotional expiration. The imagery remains cohesive: from a canvas painted by demons and a breaking point, to a silver-infused cure that dwells in the veins and stabilizes an otherwise terminal sadness.

I feel manic, like a flood overwhelming everything. I'm not here to make friends; I'm here to reveal how the world ends. The past is returning to confront you, crashing down like tidal waves, trapping you in fear. I'm the light in the darkness, an eternal spark amidst devastation. Energy surrounds you, reminding you of lost connections. Remember me as I linger like smoke, exhaling faster. You failed me, caught in a cycle of pain and fear, marked by struggles. The weight of memories and the clash of realities weigh heavily, but I remain a flicker of hope in the chaos.

I couldn't explain it. I wish you could feel what it's like in my head. It was chaotic, with voices getting louder and louder. It triggered a psychotic break.

The speaker delivers a fragmented, surreal self-address, recalling identity markers and a sense of mission that blends excavation, flight, and vision. They begin with a question: “Remember me?” followed by “Excavation,” then identify themselves as “the pilot flying to the fetal horizon,” asserting that “things for real” and “Now I see things for real.” The narrator then states an intention to quit, describing pain in the back and asserting that others “wouldn’t understand.” In a repetitive insistence, they repeat “You wouldn’t understand” as if challenging others’ perception of their experience. The voice shifts to another memory or identity line: “Remember me, Marie?” suggesting a relational or named memory tied to a person named Marie. The speaker claims to be “the pilot flying to the beetle orite,” introducing a further cryptic image in which “Demons cry as I battle on the saddle of the three headed lion,” a line that blends combat imagery with mythic symbolism. The phrase “Dharma climax” appears, followed by “Backs at my boss,” which may indicate a turning point or confrontation with authority. Further scenes paint emotional stakes: the speaker says, “See my mama crying,” and adds “Argons be lying running from the light of flying. I’m flying.” The mention of a crying mother intensifies the personal cost or consequence of the action described. The line “Argons be lying” introduces a conflict with perceived falsehoods or deceptions encountered while in flight or pursuit, all culminating in the assertion that the speaker continues to fly. Overall, the transcript presents a stream of symbolic and emotionally charged statements that interweave themes of memory, identity, struggle, and transcendence. The speaker oscillates between self-referential questions, vows of quitting due to pain, and mythic, dreamlike combat imagery, culminating in a persistent claim of flight as a defining action despite emotional and physical tolls. The recurring motifs—remembering a person named Marie, the back pain, the insistence that others wouldn’t understand, and the imagery of demons, lions, and dharma—combine to portray a character entrenched in a vision-driven conflict and a search for meaning or truth through perilous ascent.

The speaker paints a stark, surreal portrait of a body and psyche under siege by unseen forces and invasive technology. The opening imagery—“Canvas where the demons paint. A silent scream, curdled. Soul does faint.”—frames the body as a surface haunted by external darkness, a final bone about to break signaling an imminent collapse. The speaker describes nightly interventions: “They inject a cure or silver swarm at nights in my veins, keeping me warm,” claiming that these injections are meant to fix a “glitch,” a perpetual grief, a shifting of flesh while the spirit remains a ghost. The body is described as a host for a system, a manufactured entity to be controlled or rewritten. There is a sense of commodification and design: “A man that they bespoke,” suggesting that the subject is customized or engineered by others. The external world is depicted as harsh and mechanical—“The world's outside bleeding steel. Steel looking through your eyes.”—with a pain that feels so intense it seems real and indisputable: “A pain so hard it's gotta be real. Loaded pranked.” Amid this, the speaker notices rising tears and a pang that cannot be borne, accompanied by images of distant, esoteric forces—“Blacks feels high mind witches, a network of the dread”—that imply a vast, predatory system built on unspoken sorrows and unexpressed traumas. A recurring motif is data, cost, and loss. The trauma is described as “the harvest of trauma, the data loss,” with every heartbreak carrying a monetary price and a sense of personal plague—a microscopic war waged within. The text frames the situation as a product to be sold behind a locked door: “It's a product that they'll sell behind a locked door. A locked door.” The presence of machines embedded in the body is explicit: “These machines in my blood, in my blood. They're not here to save me. Not here to save me.” Time and identity are destabilized: “The step in time. I'm a living hard drive of pure harm and hurt.” The speaker repeats the notion of being a hard drive—“Living hard drive pure human hurt”—and describes existence as a museum of agony buried under dirt, and then further beneath the earth and “fucking” obscurity. Across these lines, the speaker conveys a life reduced to data, pain, and a bureaucratic or mechanized control over the body, with little protection or relief offered by those who claim to offer care. The concluding image reinforces a sense of irretrievable harm and entombment: a museum of agony hidden beneath the surface.

The lyrics describe using “Xanny for the panic” and “whiskey for the silence,” waking up to a text the narrator didn’t want to read. They repeat that it’s the same story with different people, with “wounds that never bleed.” Though the narrator says they appear “a king” on the surface, inside they feel like “a kid,” still fighting the ghost of every trauma they hid. They wear headphones at “max” to drown out violence, saying the conflict isn’t from the streets or the beat, but “the war in my skull” that never finds relief. The narrator mentions “40 plus years” and being “still not whole,” medicating “the hole in my soul.” They again return to the unwanted text and the repeated cycle of the same story and unhealed wounds. They frame both medical and therapeutic attempts as ineffective or costly: “The doctor gave me pills, I gave him back my soul,” and “The therapist said talk, I said I’ve lost all control.” Instead, the only thing that works is “the bass and the beat,” cranking up the volume “till my heart can’t compete” with the voice in their head that says they’re done, nothing, and that they’ve lost. When that internal voice speaks, the music “fights back,” getting loud enough to make them feel proud. They keep the headphones clamped tight to their skull, drowning out static and trying not to feel the pull. They repeat that the bass and beat are the only solution, that the heart can’t compete with the voice telling them they’re finished, and that the music is the only source of pride. The song ends by emphasizing “Headphones on max,” while the narrator says they are still fighting, with “Excavation” as a final line.

I see everything, but I feel empty. I don't want to die here. There has to be more. Translation (if needed): I see everything, but I feel empty. I don't want to die here. There has to be more.

I had to leave, feeling trapped in chaos. There's pain contained within the system, and I’m just a part of it, trying to navigate through it all. My emotions are evident; I’m disgusted by humanity and haunted by trauma that I can’t forget. It’s a system shock that lingers in my memory. I feel overwhelmed, drowning in emotions, struggling against the tide. I search for light but find darkness instead, trying to rise above it all. My spirit feels detached, and I wake up in fear, realizing I’m alone. I wish things were different, but I continue to fight through the blaze of my experiences.

You are not hidden. Your innocence has been shattered. I can hear you softly whispering your soul's desires.

I recall when I lost my mind. There was something enjoyable about that place.

I recall the moment I lost my mind. There was a certain comfort in that space, where even emotions resonate. Being out there, carefree, made me feel disconnected.

A young boy appears, a stranger to my eyes, strong in my pain with his fingers.

You're the light. You're the night. You're the color of my blood. You're the cure. You're the pain. You're the only thing I wanna touch. Never knew that it

I recall the moment I lost my mind. There was an odd sense of comfort in that space.

I have lost touch with reality and started renting a wheelchair to experience how my daily life would change. It's one thing to imagine being in a wheelchair and not being able to reach certain things or having to rearrange my home. But the overwhelming emotion I felt when I first tried it was indescribable.

I can't escape, they keep pulling me back in.

It feels like digging my own grave, but worse. It's as if I'm not only digging but also preparing to stab myself and fall into it.

The speaker discusses their ultimate freedom and questions how others can know if they exist or not. They mention being feared in every girl's school and experiencing pain from someone putting their fingers inside them. The only person connected to their life was their mother, whom they became attached to. They sat with their mother for five days after she died, but they claim it didn't really happen in a macabre sense. They express displeasure at a picture drawn of them and mention that they have done nothing to deserve it. The speaker briefly mentions the importance of working in a hospital. The transcript abruptly ends.

The speaker describes a former state of intense pain—“burn,” “ache,” “scream at the sky”—that has shifted into numb, passive staring at the sky and ceiling. They say the fire went out, it went cold, and nothing else grew in the space left behind. They describe themselves as emotionally still: hands don’t shake, eyes don’t wet, and they feel like a “flat line” the world hasn’t noticed. They list a total lack of emotional timeline: “No joy, no sorrow, no future, no past,” replaced by “the echo of a heartbeat that was never built to last.” Healing is imagined as warmth—“the Sun on my face”—but what they experience is hollow, vacuum-like emptiness, and a feeling of peace as the absence rather than relief. They contrast expectations of peace and calm with what they actually feel: peace was supposed to be warm and calm supposed to be kind, but it becomes “the absence of the war inside my mind.” The speaker says they don’t miss the chaos, yet they also don’t feel life’s ordinary sensations—no sunshine, no rain—and instead feel suspended, “just existing,” as if without a chain. They describe waiting for a spark that might never come again, ending with “Ghostly whisper.”