Capacitor Hymn

[Verse 1]
The GE box fan on the windowsill, a plastic cage of gray,
Blades chop the static of a humid August day.
A person watches fingers fold a shirt, the collar worn and thin,
A map of every town the faded cotton's been within.
The floorboards give a low complaint beneath a worn-out shoe,
The air is thick with ozone and a silence overdue.
No promises were ever soldered here, the circuit's always frayed,
Just the motor's steady whine across the empty bed unmade.

[Chorus]
The low hum's a language now, a ghost that won't give in.
A capacitor hymn for how it ends and where to begin.
The low hum's a language now, the only real thing left.
A capacitor hymn, a perfect, quiet theft.

[Verse 2]
The lock on the door has a line of orange bleeding from the frame,
Like a single tear of iron that doesn't know a name.
A glass of water on the nightstand with a watermark so pale,
Next to a paperback whose cover tells a different kind of tale.
"The dust won't matter where it's going," a voice says, soft and low,
A phantom echo in a room where nothing's left to grow.
The suitcase latches with a sound that's final, sharp, and clean,
Leaving just the buzzing witness to the absence of the scene.

[Bridge]
A current running backwards, just a signal in the noise.
The tired machinery of little sorrows, little joys.

[Outro]
(Beat cuts out completely for 4 seconds of silence)

...And the blades just keep on turning.
Yeah, the blades just keep on turning.