Verse 1, Fricktion:
Inside these crowded streets,
Nothin’ in my mind but the sound of beats
With the rhythm mimickin’ the poundin’ feet
I feel adrift in the sea, but still I drown in sheets

You see I’m free it seems to roll with my dreams
When I climb these beams to the highest of trees
While I’m up there, I find I’m always on some next shit
But I find my scope narrowed while I’m hunchin’ over breakfast

I come from cornfields, call the exurbs home
The land of diesel truck fumes, dip spit, and chrome,
Cheap herb, long drives, small minds, and clones,
Where glue poured outta orange bottles holds together homes

So I had to find my own to hold together my dome,
Didn’t come with a prescription, it came with rhythms and flows,
Beats bangin’ out here where we call ‘em roads, not streets
Learned to get my mind free underneath the pine trees

Chorus, Corey Banet:
Attracting black holes
I know you can handle it
You’ve lived your life in a box
Now stand up and step out of it

Bridge, Fricktion:
No traction, slow backspin
Kinetic action splintered into fractions
Abstractions all that I can fathom
Thoughts swingin’ like a hammer with the speed of a MAC-10

Silent as a still life, is this still life?
I’ve been there and this isn’t what it feels like
A waking fantasy, banishing reality
A welcome sanctuary to escape from life’s banality

Verse 2, Fricktion:
It starts to take shape deep in the subconscious,
Bobbin’ in a sea of darkness only escaped by the strongest
Risin’ and fallin’, rollin’ like a tide,
Pulsin’ through the membrane between the conscious mind and the sublime

Long before a rhyme, a quick flash movin’ down the line,
A flash, a spark, a flame, a conflagration blazin’ in my mind
Meticulous machinery chuggin’ on in time
With a helpful heap of elbow grease keepin’ the pump primed

It’s days like these that keep my pistons firing
Few sparks left, vagabonds in my wiring
Horizons as my walls, bulbs beat out by the sun,
Runnin’ on just enough fumes to be mistaken for fun

But a wordsmith’s work can never be done,
Always two more come from every one,
But clever enough and you can make one greater,
From the pencil and the pad to the knob and the fader