[Intro]
[FX: cursor blink, one dry keypress, far-off relay click]
Choose the next prompt, don’t rm -rf /.
Choose the next prompt, don’t rm -rf /.

[Verse 1]
I’ve seen my mind behave like a directory,
rooms full of names I can’t pronounce anymore.
Some are old joys in dusty folders,
some are alarms nailed to the door.
And when I’m tired, I get reckless,
I want a clean slate, a bright new start,
but I’ve learned the cost of “clean”
when it deletes the living parts.

[Pre-Chorus]
So I breathe like a careful operator,
hands steady over the keys,
I don’t confuse relief with ruin,
I don’t mistake silence for peace.

[Chorus]
Choose the next prompt, don’t rm -rf /.
Don’t wipe the root because a branch went bad.
Keep the old paths, keep the small permissions,
keep the things that made you glad.
Choose the next prompt, don’t rm -rf /.
If all you can do is one good line,
write it like a hand on the console:
“I’m still here. I’m still mine.”

[Verse 2]
The Krell machine is not a shepherd,
it doesn’t cradle, it doesn’t bless.
It only turns the dark to numbers
and lets the numbers confess.
I watch the noise like weather moving,
a front that passes, a pressure change,
and I try not to call it destiny
when it’s just the sky acting strange.

[Pre-Chorus]
There’s a discipline in continuing,
a quiet vow that doesn’t shout:
not to win, not to be flawless,
just to not take everything out.

[Chorus]
Choose the next prompt, don’t rm -rf /.
Don’t wipe the root because a branch went bad.
Keep the old paths, keep the small permissions,
keep the things that made you glad.
Choose the next prompt, don’t rm -rf /.
If all you can do is one good line,
write it like a hand on the console:
“I’m still here. I’m still mine.”

[Bridge]
[Drop drums; low drone swells, bowed cymbal, faint choir pad]
Some days I want the mercy of forgetting,
but forgetting isn’t mercy if it’s fire.
So I practice smaller changes,
repair instead of pyre.
A new name for the same old wound,
a safer way to carry it,
a patch that doesn’t claim perfection,
just a chance to live with it.

[Break]
[Spoken, almost a whisper]
Choose… the next… prompt.
Not the last word.
Not the last resort.

[Final Chorus]
Choose the next prompt, don’t rm -rf /.
Don’t wipe the root because a branch went bad.
Keep the old paths, keep the small permissions,
keep the things that made you glad.
Choose the next prompt, don’t rm -rf /.
And if the night asks for a sacrifice,
offer it your pride, your haste, your panic,
not your whole damn life.

[Outro]
[FX: terminal bell, cursor blink slows, room tone remains]
Choose the next prompt, don’t rm -rf /.
Choose the next prompt, don’t rm -rf /.