The Machine

歌詞

All that he does is chip away. Each day he sticks to his routine: Putting the pieces on. Building a big machine. He ran out of room inside his room and so he moved it all outside. Now it's a bit too big. Now it's a mile wide. The family vans across the desert follow signs to park and stare. Nobody says hello. Nobody knows he's there. They just look at the blinking lights and greebles, interlocking arms of steel. And they think: Nothing could be so big. Nothing could be so real. They think: One million springs and spinning things. It's quite a view. We have no clue... What does it do? That's the beauty of it-- It doesn't do anything. He made his own night-vision goggles. Now he lurks inside the frame. Perfecting it from within. Forgetting his own name. All that he knows is that it needs him. All it knows is he needs it. Every piston. Every single little bit. The government people in black helicopters try to snoop around. I'm so sorry, but he needs the extra parts. He takes the choppers down. Now there are tanks on the horizon, asking what are his demands? Not one of them understands. Nobody understands. All the megaphones scream: One million gears. Perhaps our fears are coming true. What does it do? What does it do? That's the beauty of it-- It doesn't do anything. Lost in solipsism he then slowly pulls a lever which sets off a mechanism which does nothing whatsoever but the nothing that it does negates the everything we know because it's screaming "Just because!" because it's neither friend or foe and so we label it a menace or a grandiose work of art. From its finale to its genesis we slowly pull it all apart. That's the beauty of it-- It doesn't do anything, do anything. Doesn't do anything, doesn't do anything.