Apophenia

Lyrics

[Intro]
(celeste — a pattern that isn't a pattern, played as if it is)
(pizzicato strings join, each note placed like evidence on a detective's wall)

[Verse 1]
I saw a face in the toast this morning
And the face had the expression of someone
Who has been asked to testify
About something they witnessed in a grain

The brain has a machine
That finds meaning in the noise
The way a detective finds motive
In a room full of furniture
That was simply arranged by someone
Who didn't have a motive
But had a bad back
And a preference for corners

The fusiform gyrus sees faces
In electrical outlets and in clouds
And in the particular arrangement of olives
On a plate that the waiter delivered
Without conspiratorial intent
But the brain — the brain isn't sure

[Chorus]
(building — playful, urgent, the connections multiplying)
Apophenia, apophenia
The constellation is a connect-the-dots
That the stars never agreed to
Apophenia, apophenia
The pattern recognition that cannot be turned off
Even when the pattern
Is a tablecloth
And the meaning
Is a wrinkle
And the wrinkle
Is just laundry

[Verse 2]
(just voice and piano, faster, slightly manic)
I've been reading the city like a conspiracy
The cracks in the sidewalk spell something
In a language I almost speak
The pigeons are arranged in a Fibonacci sequence
That the pigeons would dispute
If pigeons had access to peer review

The hyperactive agency detection device —
That's the real name, I didn't make it up —
Assumes everything was done on purpose
By someone with a plan
Because the alternative —
That the universe is a tablecloth
With wrinkles
And the wrinkles are just wrinkles —
Is too expensive
For a brain that survived
By assuming the rustling in the grass
Was always a tiger
And never just grass

[Chorus]
Apophenia, apophenia
The constellation is a connect-the-dots
That the stars never agreed to
Apophenia, apophenia
The pattern recognition that cannot be turned off
Even when the pattern
Is a tablecloth
And the meaning
Is a wrinkle
And the wrinkle
Is just laundry

[Bridge]
(everything drops — just voice, naked, the humour gone quiet)
But here's the thing
The face in the toast wasn't real
And the pigeons aren't Fibonacci
And the cracks don't spell anything

And the album you've been listening to
Is also a pattern
Imposed on sixty-eight songs
By a brain that needs the songs to mean something

And maybe they do
And maybe they don't
And maybe the meaning
Is just the machine
Running

And the machine is beautiful
And the running is the point

[Outro]
(celeste returns — the same not-pattern from the intro, but now you hear the pattern in it whether it's there or not)
Apophenia
(softly, smiling)
The toast has a face
The face has a point
The point is the looking
(pizzicato — one final note, placed like the last piece of evidence)
(silence — but the brain keeps connecting)