No Parish Burial Record (Count of St. Germain)

Lyrics

[Verse 1]
Your synapses rewrite themselves again—
that phantom hand conjures gold from nothing,
cortical pathways blazing fresh with every dawn.
You've lived a thousand lives, your mirror neurons
dancing through centuries, predicting futures
that haven't learned your name yet.
The alchemist's dream lives in your axons:
transmutation isn't just mercury and flame,
it's the long-term potentiation of becoming,
each reinvention a synapse strengthened,
myelination of your spiraling self.
You grin at the impossible,
your interoception sensing what others call fantasy—
but you know better.

[Chorus]
You transform, you shimmer, you refuse to stay
in the shape that yesterday demanded.
Your brilliance is the kindling,
your restlessness the wind—
you burn toward what's next,
textured with secrets,
propulsive, alive, unfading.

[Verse 2]
Theta waves hum through your hippocampal consolidation,
memory made muscle, every era etched
into your neurogenesis—new cells born
from old fire, proprioception of infinite time.
You taste transmutation on your tongue,
the way gold tastes like laughter and prophecy.
Cortical remapping renders you spectral, joyful,
a body that refuses its own history.
Your predictive coding maps impossible geometries:
what will you wear tomorrow?
Which accent will spill from your mouth?
The science of you is rhythm, is rhythm, is rhythm—
atoms singing in your bones, refusing settlement.

[Chorus]
You transform, you shimmer, you refuse to stay
in the shape that yesterday demanded.
Your brilliance is the kindling,
your restlessness the wind—
you burn toward what's next,
textured with secrets,
propulsive, alive, unfading.

[Bridge]
Your secret isn't in the crucible—
it's in the rewiring, the constant
neuroplasticity of your becoming.
You've cracked the code:
reinvention is the only immortality
that tastes like joy.

[Chorus]
You transform, you shimmer, you refuse to stay
in the shape that yesterday demanded.
Your brilliance is the kindling,
your restlessness the wind—
you burn toward what's next,
textured with secrets,
propulsive, alive, unfading.

[Outro]
The gold keeps spinning in your hands,
never settling, never tarnishing—
just as you promised yourself centuries ago:
always rising, always burning brighter,
always the next phantom dawn
waiting in your palms.