Thirty-One Posters

Lyrics

[Verse 1]
Your hands remember the stage before your eyes do—
those two-fingered sketches, the absinthe-green blur,
the cancan leg suspended like a compass needle.
You lived in the theater's hip-height vantage,
where synaptic plasticity rewired your cortex
to see what standing tall could never catch:
the dancer's spine, the pianist's twitch,
the sweat-bright instant before the fall.

[Chorus]
Your angle was the truth—
not from the balcony, not from above,
but from the place where you belonged,
where the spotlight found your eyes first
and the tremor in your wrist became the proof.

[Verse 2]
Long-term potentiation carved those lines deeper
each night you returned to the same red velvet seat,
synapses firing the identical phosphorescent path—
muscle memory of a gaze, not a gait.
Your brush knew the geometry of their bodies
before your hand could move,
mirror neurons singing with each performer's strain,
your hippocampus binding the stage-light
to the exact smell of greasepaint and wine.

[Chorus]
Your angle was the truth—
not from the balcony, not from above,
but from the place where you belonged,
where the spotlight found your eyes first
and the tremor in your wrist became the proof.

[Bridge]
You didn't climb the stairs.
You sank into the orchestra pit of being—
closer to the floorboards than to heaven,
your interoception sharp as a tuning fork,
reading every pulse beneath the skin,
every hunger you could name
because your body knew it too.

[Chorus]
Your angle was the truth—
not from the balcony, not from above,
but from the place where you belonged,
where the spotlight found your eyes first
and the tremor in your wrist became the proof.

[Outro]
The moulin still turns.
Your vantage point still glows—
not higher, but deeper into the spinning dark,
where only you could see the light land.