Black Hole Sun

The world seems to be spinning, but everything feels sticky, like the air after a thunderstorm. The face is hidden under a mask, the words flow through the teeth like cold, viscous mercury. Everything alive seems tired of being honest, and even the sun hangs overhead with the look of a person who has come at the wrong time and to the wrong place. When that hum sounds, you wish someone would just press "reset" and wash away the remnants of lies, noise, and the feverish madness. May it wash everything clean, even the memory of those who sang sincerely. Because after something like that, there's neither light nor darkness left, just a strange relief, as if the silence inside has finally settled.