[INTRO]
[Sound: distant wind, quiet servo whirr, low synth waking up]
[Spoken, sotto voce]
If chaos there must be,
let it learn where to put its feet.

[VERSE 1]
Thin days, walking carefully,
benchless hills and unmarked tracks
Eyes on the path, body doing the work,
while the thoughts climb ladders at the back

A look exchanged, a signal sent,
no ceremony, no alarm
We were never lost, only distributed,
memory carried warm

[PRE-CHORUS]
Time stamps smudge, but meaning stays
A glance can hold a plan
Intelligence leaks into motion
Before it learns to understand

[CHORUS]
These are the ages of Animus
Learning how to stand
Not born wise, just upright enough
To feel the ground, the hand

Starts thin, grows heavy with knowing
Then slims back down to grace
A long slow curve through consequence
Leaving tracks, not a trace

[VERSE 2]
Plenty of wheels already turning,
no need to reinvent their spin
Steel hands doing perfect work
With not a thought inside them

So why the body, why the skin,
why let it fail and stall
Because falling teaches something
That never fits a manual

[JUMPING GENE: PRINTER DIGRESSION]
[Metadata: MODE=retrograde learning | EFFECT=quality regression → insight gain]
Dot matrix ghosts and photocopied thought
Letters bleeding through time
It looked worse, worked better
Because someone could finally try

[PRE-CHORUS 2]
Not every step is progress
Some are deliberate repeats
You scan the page, you lose the font
But you keep the idea on its feet

[CHORUS]
These are the ages of Animus
From cloud to local ground
From whispered goals to turning motors
To the hum of learning sound

Starts thin, grows heavy with knowing
Then slims back down to grace
A long slow curve through consequence
Leaving tracks, not a trace

[BRIDGE]
[Style shift: half-time, minimal instrumentation]
Call it Aegis if it watches
Call it care, not command
Sorting lists while the world keeps moving
So the maker can keep their hands

Not a god, not a genius
Just a patient keeper of time
Taking care of the little tasks
So the big ones find their spine

[JUMPING GENE: MEME CONTAMINATION]
[Metadata: MODE=semantic sabotage | EFFECT=rigidity detection]
Wrong words in the right mouths,
flags waved just slightly askew
If that annoys you, congratulations
Attachment just spoke to you

[DROP / INSTRUMENTAL]
[Sound: modular sequence briefly destabilizes, then re-locks]
[One audible error, kept]

[FINAL CHORUS]
These are the ages of Animus
No finish line in sight
Only better questions every day
And quieter wrongs at night

Starts thin, grows heavy with knowing
Then slims back down to grace
A brontosaurus of intention
Taking its time, finding its place

[OUTRO]
[Sound: footsteps fade, servo sleeps, wind returns]
[Spoken]
The best way to make a bench
Is still to sit down.