[Intro – Instrumental]
[Distorted bass pulse, syncopated electronic drums]
[Muted guitar riff builds into verse]
[Verse 1 – Male, gritty British rap, tight rhythmic delivery]
Six missed calls and a calendar collision,
Everybody's got a crisis, nobody needs permission.
Got a head full of deadlines, a desk full of shit,
And a talent for agreeing before anyone's finished.
Twenty-seven tabs and a ten-minute job,
Turned into a team sport, who'd have thought?
Someone put "urgent" in the subject line,
And a smiley face, so I guess it's fine.
Got my name on a list that I never agreed to,
Three little dots and another "I need you".
Polite little panic with a professional tone,
Everybody wants a piece, nobody wants the whole.
It's a funny little system, everybody takes turns,
Somebody lights a match, somebody else gets burnt.
And the clock keeps ticking, the workload grows,
Got a thousand ways of saying yes and not one no.
[Pre-Chorus – Female, restrained melodic vocal]
I can feel the space
Before the next beat hits.
Something in the timing
Never quite fits.
And I've been keeping pace
With a rhythm I can't fix.
[Chorus – Female, powerful melodic post-hardcore]
There's a skip in the pulse,
I'm leaving it in.
That tiny bit of silence
Is the only thing that fits.
Tick, slip,
Too practiced to quit.
Anything with a pulse
Gets put to work.
I feel it coming,
Feel it cut.
Close enough,
Never enough.
There's a skip in the pulse,
And I'm leaving it in.
[Verse 2 – Female, rhythmic sung-rap, intimate and biting]
Polished my panic till it looked useful,
Made it a skill, made it habitual.
Good little habit with a terrible ending,
Always on call without anyone ringing.
I know the shape of an empty minute,
Find a little peace, put a problem in it.
Something about the way it all accelerates,
Makes me feel important when I'm running late.
It's almost impressive how quickly I fold,
When nobody's asking, I'm still on hold.
Another good reason, another excuse,
Another loose thread I can turn into a noose.
Got a reputation for keeping things steady,
Always available, always fucking ready.
Spent too long being the fix,
Now I'm good at the bit that makes me sick.
[Instrumental – Dirty bass groove]
[Breakbeat drums, jagged guitar riff]
[Brief instrumental hook]
[Verse 3 – Male, faster technical British rap]
Funny how the little things accumulate,
Funny how the little things accumulate,
A minute turns an hour, then another day evaporates.
Got a calendar full of somebody else's mistakes,
A smile for the client and a twitch in my face.
There's a meeting for the meeting, then a meeting to review it,
Another fresh initiative and no one left to do it.
Big words, bright slides, fifteen-point plan,
Same shit, new font, made by the same man.
I'm efficient, I'm reliable, I'm chronically available,
My patience is a variable, my evenings negotiable.
An asset, not a person, just a name upon a chart,
Got a price against my hours and a target on my heart.
And it's funny how the buzz gets addictive in a way,
Makes a quiet little moment feel like wasted bloody space.
Got my finger on the pulse, but the pressure never drops,
And the whole thing keeps on moving when the individual stops.
[Chorus – Female lead, gritty male backing texture]
There's a skip in the pulse,
I'm leaving it in.
That tiny bit of silence
Is the only thing that fits.
Tick, slip,
Too practiced to quit.
Anything with a pulse
Gets put to work.
I feel it coming,
Feel it cut.
Close enough,
Never enough.
There's a skip in the pulse,
And I'm leaving it in.
[Bridge – Female, soft rhythmic melody over minimal bass]
Quiet has teeth,
And I keep feeding it minutes.
An empty little space,
And I can't leave it unfinished.
The rhythm gets underneath,
The rhythm gets into everything.
[Male – Fast rhythmic rap layered beneath female melody]
Ticking and clicking and shifting the limits,
A minute's a minute until you're not in it.
A habit, a pattern, a practical prison,
A voluntary sentence with excellent benefits.
[Breakdown – Female, increasingly raw and aggressive]
I've been counting
All the seconds
Like they owe me
Something back.
A little less perfect,
A little off track.
Let it slip.
Let it skip.
Let it—
[Heavy instrumental breakdown]
[Down-tuned guitars, halftime drums, distorted bass]
[Final Chorus – Female lead, layered male rhythmic backing]
There's a skip in the pulse,
I'm leaving it in.
That tiny bit of silence
Is the only thing that fits.
Tick, slip,
Too practiced to quit.
Anything with a pulse
Gets put to work.
I feel it coming,
Feel it cut.
Close enough,
Never enough.
There's a skip in the pulse,
And I'm leaving it in.
[Outro – Instrumental]
[Main bass riff returns, drums gradually break apart]
[One missing beat before final distorted hit]
[End]