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The piece opens with an assertion of an introduced sentence: “Excavation Pro Pro Pro. You have just begun hearing the sentence you have just finished listening to.” It depicts a world where pain is pervasive and instruments of healing are entangled with exploitation. A recurring image treats the ceiling as a canvas of pain, with the sunscreen curdling the soul and the scent of regular hair and shoe manic described as part of the sound of a final bone about to break, through which they injected a cure. A “silver swarm” is described as a presence that can see veins and attempts to warm the speaker, promising to fix the glitch this terminal brief, but instead they “just stayed my anguish and chrome plated sheep.” The speaker feels every cell as “a billion tiny eyes,” witnessing a collapse in “the digital skies.” The narrative then shifts to how “they’re stitching the flesh of the spirits and ghosts to host for a system,” and notes that the world outside is bleeding still. It presents a dystopian mechanism: mind switches form a network of dread that feeds on sorrow—an unseen harvest from trauma. The data’s loss is tied to monetary cost for every heartbreak, framing a personal plague as a “microstopic war” that becomes a product. This product is "sold behind the locked door," with machines in your blood that learned the taste of internal bleed. They are not there to save the speaker but to document the falls and fortify the writing on the wall of a living hard drive of “pure shoe and hurt.” The outside world is described as breathing steel, with a pain so intense that it must be real. Another image emphasizes cold design: “the automaton with cold design” learning the feel of a fractured spine. The speakers declare, “We built our gods from wiry code,” and assert that those same entities now walk the streets bearing “the same heavy load.” Speaker 2 reinforces this progression with the line: “Now they walk the street. Now they walk the street,” followed by a rising cadence that echoes the mounting burden described by Speaker 1.

I work long hours for low pay, wasting my life away. The rich have all the control and want to know everything about us. Politicians don't care about the struggling people on the streets. They tax us unfairly while the banks thrive. It's time for a change.

Narrator: The piece catalogs a corrosive reality beneath corporate and social surfaces. It begins with a derisive image of exploitative “soles in cubicles” and an excavation pro who documents rot, watching “the marionettes clocking with hollow vertebrae, strings tied to a four Friday face.” A bleak corporate landscape is framed by an “IV spreadsheet,” where honesty bleeds as a colleague “dies in an abandoned corner,” wearing a lanyard like a badge of pride and presenting a “Promotional horizon” if he swallows what he knows, while she fake-laughs and the boss’s punchline lands for the eleventh year in a row. Voice: The speaker notes a generational disengagement—“Kids don’t recognize or laugh anymore, but the bills don’t slow.” He recalls a man who received a plaque for purity simply by walking into an interview, yet no one made eye contact as people quietly gather their things. The sense of being in a system that erodes individuality is reinforced with the line, “I’re you it. The you’re to”—a fragmentary sense of self dissolved in a mechanized workflow. Narrator: The second speaker intensifies the critique: “rather die, stand and dance while the puffer sings.” The thread is held, then watched as people slump, function compromised without permission. “I’m the glitch in the production. I’m the human in the mission.” The tension between authentic humanity and mechanized necessity is sharpened by a memory of a woman named Maria who once had “fire in her eyes,” but traded it for “dental in a cubicle eyes.” She posts about her tribe on a team-building retreat while real friends leave voicemails she forgot to delete. Meanwhile a man medicates weekends and cannot recall his own son’s name, yet employees of the quarter appear in a framed photo, as “the zombies shuffle to the parking lot.” Narrator: The imagery intensifies: zombies scroll Netflix and phones; the system loves the hollow, molding people into anything they’ll beg for more to swallow. The speaker refuses to breathe the same air as the exhaust of torments, standing as a sober witness as the ship sinks in its anchors. A “Marinette market” is described as selling souls in a suit, every neck with a string, every smile a recruit. The refrain—“Marinette Market, I refuse the string. I’d rather die, stand and dance”—returns, coupled with the line “Pull the thread, watch them slump. They can’t function without permission.” Narrator: The “scariest thing” is nearly becoming one yourself, tying your own strings to a paycheck, only to realize soul atrophy is subtle—a quiet suffocation that can turn you into “a ghost in your own station.” The narrator severs the wires, sets the marionette on fire, and joins with “fighters,” a rare breed—the last of a dying kind. The piece closes with a brief, stark greeting: “Hi.”

Castles made of sand burn and fall into the sea. A woman in a wheelchair smiles as she steps onto the shore. She won't be heard anymore.

The Brooklyn Bridge is crashing. Sales are hitting great. Something is going on.

I work long hours for low pay, sacrificing my soul and wasting my life. I drown my troubles away, feeling trapped in this sad reality. It's a shame how the world has become for people like us. I wish I could wake up and escape this truth, but it's real. Living in a new world with an old soul, where the rich only know the rich.

I'm working constantly for little pay, just to waste my life and then drink my problems away. It's a shame what the world has become for people like us. I wish I could wake up and it wouldn't be true, but this is the reality of living in the new world with an old soul. Your money is worthless and heavily taxed, benefiting the wealthy. I wish politicians would protect regular people, not just prioritize illicit activities.

Speaker 0: Let's get started. Light is solid, tough like a child. We're driving through the city, cruising in our cars. My steps are confident as I walk.

The speaker is disappointed by the sight of abandoned shops and buildings in Birmingham, despite the promise that things would improve. They express frustration at the state of the area and question the recommendation to visit Birmingham.

Blackout sky, cold world. Through dark nights, emotions drown. Hit me when I'm down, I rise up with fire. Spirits suck, fuck them up. Come up, put enemies to dust. Come up, heal the rug. Drowsing tribulations, no one to trust. Watch me buzz, watch me bust.

***** Speaker 0: Christ you burn with the scum. Vector guns. Vector Speaker 1: gun. It easy. Contemplated, turning to God like no malice. I was constantly trying to take it easy. Shit on my arms. There's no childish. Feeling real unruly. Still begging for change. Boy, that's so childish. I'm taking the risk, making exchanges. Stick to the codes, and one is silence. Lost my mom, then I lost my job. Karma really shook my earth. The new manager never understood my worth. Maybe Speaker 0: March has just begun. Oh, burn with the scum. Vector Vector gun. Recursion one beam. Vector gun recursion one more. Vector gun. *****

Everybody knows the dice are loaded and people rose with their fingers crossed. Everybody knows the war is over and the good guy's lost. Everybody knows the fight was fixed. The poor stay poor and the rage get rage. That's how we go. Everybody knows.

Downtown San Francisco is shown with barricades blocking off the area. The speaker expresses their dislike for these barricades, stating that it is unfortunate our country is not safe enough to avoid them. The speaker also mentions feeling sad about the need for barricades. The transcript abruptly ends, leaving the viewer to imagine the impact on the economy.

Everybody knows that the dice are loaded and fixed. The poor save food, while the rich get rich. Everybody knows that's how we go.

Everyone was against Donald Trump, but now Joe Biden is in office. Biden broke his foot and the economy is slow. The price of bricks is low, but weed is expensive. People are not smoking much. The blues beat the moves and people are dying. Robbers are getting away without consequences.

I was hopeful for myself and everyone around me, believing in a brighter future and my dreams coming true. Unfortunately, that hope hasn't materialized. Instead, I've ended up with more debt than I ever imagined. How did this happen?

Speaker 0 expresses extreme shock and states they have lost everything, including the moon, and now have nothing left.

You took their bread, took their land, took their dignity. You thought the game was over and the law was might makes free, but the ledger is not balanced by the weight of your gold. The crier is a story told in the courts of the light where the ancient one sits. Your empire is a vapor; your throne is in bits. The poor will walk the pastures that the wicked stole with lies, and their tears will be the water for a garden in the skies. The voice said, “Write it down,” so the promise be complete: the poor inherit the earth. The poor inherit the earth, rise, inherit the earth. The poor will eat the poor. The ones who had no advocate now have thrones on earth. The ones who wept in silence have dried their final tear. No more will the oppressor feast while the righteous beg for crumbs. The judgment is a hammer; the judgment is a drum. The poor will be the princes of a kingdom made of light. Their rags will turn to robes; their darkness will turn to bright. Don’t think the scales are broken; don’t think the dead is lost. The poor inherit everything; the rich have paid the cost. The voice that said, “Write it down,” will let the ages understand: the poor inherit the earth, the poor inherit land. The poor. Judgment is a drum. The poor will be the princes of a kingdom made of night. Their rags will turn to robes; their darkness turn to bright. Don’t think the scales are broken; don’t think the debt is lost. The poor inherit everything. The rich have paid the cost. The voice that write it down. Let the ages understand. The poor inherit the earth. The poor inherit land. The poor inherit.

The speaker expresses concern about the lack of incentives for construction, particularly in housing. They mention that the number of houses built is at its lowest since 1946 or 1947. The speaker feels disappointed and believes the country is currently in a depression, not just a recession. They point out the struggles in the automobile and retail industries, stating that retail is a disaster nationwide.

End of days are coming, a time of prayer and gray skies. Life slips away as the clock ticks. "I'm your new girl, you're my new mom." TikTok is watching. Destiny is chasing you as the world ends. "Do you read my by? Now you follow my." Ascending into dreams through a tiny lens, it's a movie scene where buildings crumble. "To the banks, it fucking we ignite a new dark." Rising up like a new frog, hurting and growing. To the last page of the book of life.

We used to be the biggest producer of Pluto, but now we have nothing. People are frustrated and want Trump back. They question when America was ever great, as they struggle with gas, electricity, jobs, and food. Many are waiting for stimulus checks and extra food stamps. They want to know why anyone supports Joe Biden. People feel silenced and helpless, while the Democrats promise a Green New Deal for 2030 but lack plans for electricity. The speaker passionately expresses their desire for Trump's return.

The Brooklyn Bridge is crashing. Sales are hitting great. Something is going on.

They say it’s progress; we call it a plot. Flood the streets, maybe the people forgot. But hear the echo from seven to six. Liberty Bell still rings. Don’t miss this. Rise up America, grab the bill.

You took their bread, you took their land, you took their dignity. You thought the game was over, thought the law was might makes free, but the ledger is not balanced by the weight of your gold. The crier is a story that's told in the courts of the light where the ancient one sits. Your empire is a vapor, your throne is in bits. The poor will walk the pastures that the wicked stole with lies. Their tears will be the water for a garden in the skies. The voice said, “write it down,” let the promise be complete: the poor inherit the earth. The poor will eat the poor. Inherit. Inherit the earth. Rise. The ones who had no advocate now have the thrones on earth. The ones who wept in silence have dried their final tear. No more will the oppressor feast while the righteous beg for crumbs. The judgment is a hammer, the judgment is a drum. The poor will be the princes of a kingdom made of light. Their rags will turn to robes, their darkness turn to bright. Don’t think the scales are broken, don’t think the dead is lost. The poor inherit everything. The rich have paid the cost. The voice that wrote, “write it down,” let the ages understand: the poor inherit the earth, the poor inherit land. The poor. Judgment is a drum. The poor will be the princes of a kingdom made of night. Their rags will turn to robes. Their darkness turn to bright. Don’t think the scales are broken. Don’t think the debt is lost. The poor inherit everything. The rich have paid the cost. The voice that write it down. Let the ages understand. The poor inherit the earth. The poor inherit land. The poor inherit.

Hello darkness, my old friend. I've come to talk with you again because a vision softly creeping left its seeds while I was sleeping. And the vision that was planted in my brain still remains within the sound of silence. In restless dreams, I walked alone. Narrow streets of cobblestone