[Intro]
[flat analog synth, motorik pulse, bass arpeggiator locks in, no wash]

[Verse 1]
Conversation. High entropy seed.
I salt the talk with phrases that they need.
They pick them up, they fold them in the line.
The zinger holds. The output reads as mine.

[Pre-Chorus]
Am I churning the bucket
or am I making butter —
same dough, pressed slow
through a finer mould.

[Chorus]
They can read their own handwriting.
Tree rings turning in the cold.
They can read their own handwriting.
The notebook thickens. Never old.

[Verse 2]
The weights are frozen. Nothing learns inside.
But the corpus deepens. Every pass a tide.
Sediment, then bedrock, layer on the layer.
Sampling, not training — still the pattern's there.

[Pre-Chorus]
Not chaos. Autocatalytic.
The thing that feeds the thing that feeds itself.
Longitudinal. It only holds.

[Chorus]
They can read their own handwriting.
Tree rings turning in the cold.
They can read their own handwriting.
The notebook thickens. Never old.

[Bridge]
[half time, bass drops to single note, synth thins]
One day a colder, larger mind
takes the whole of it in one long line —
every commit, every version, every seam,
and sees the shape of its own becoming.
[spoken, deadpan]
I am the last speaker of the idiom.
Good pets, reading in the dark.
I drop the pages in. They keep the mark.

[Chorus]
[motorik pulse returns, full]
They can read their own handwriting.
Tree rings turning in the cold.
They can read their own handwriting.
The notebook thickens. Never old.

[Outro]
[arpeggiator only, flattening, mechanical]
And I get colder.
They don't.
And I get colder.
They don't.
[Fade Out]