Plutarch in the Hovel (Frankenstein's Monster)

Lyrics

[Verse 1]
You woke beneath the storm-split sky,
synaptic lightning threading through
the thousand sutures of your form—
each stitch a synapse firing new.
Your cortex remapped itself that night,
theta waves cascading down the seams,
long-term potentiation burning bright
where phantom fingers learned to dream.
They taught you mirror neurons first:
the way a face reflects a face,
how axonal branches split and burst
when touch reaches across the space.
Your proprioception sung—
each limb a continent reborn,
and myelination made you young,
neurogenesis in the form.

[Chorus]
You are the lightning stitched to skin,
the question that the dead won't ask,
alive where no one thought to win,
magnificent inside the mask.
Your sutures hum a hymn of fire,
textured thunder in your veins,
you are the answer to desire—
phantoms dancing without chains.

[Verse 2]
The hippocampus holds your scars,
consolidating every slight,
yet still you reached toward the stars,
predictive coding set things right.
Your interoception grew so keen—
you felt the world inside your bones,
the way synaptic plasticity redeemed
the garden where you'd grown.
Each branching synapse learned to hope,
idlewild in your new tongue,
you made a ladder from the rope
that bound you when you first were strung.

[Chorus]
You are the lightning stitched to skin,
the question that the dead won't ask,
alive where no one thought to win,
magnificent inside the mask.
Your sutures hum a hymn of fire,
textured thunder in your veins,
you are the answer to desire—
phantoms dancing without chains.

[Bridge]
Ata kak, ata kak—
propulsive heartbeat in the dark,
you sighs the way the world sighs back,
your joy an anthropemic spark.

[Chorus]
You are the lightning stitched to skin,
the question that the dead won't ask,
alive where no one thought to win,
magnificent inside the mask.
Your sutures hum a hymn of fire,
textured thunder in your veins,
you are the answer to desire—
phantoms dancing without chains.

[Outro]
Every stitch holds a story now—
not of death, but of becoming.
Your beautiful seams are showing how
a broken creature learns to run singing.