Revival is the ash-dusted pulse under my ribs, a quiet ache breaking the void. It’s no grand return—just a slow seep, low tones like roots splitting stone, pushing past what’s left. I feel it in my chest, rust flaking off a weight I’ve held too long, a restart that stings, not promising peace, just motion. This is the crack—sharp notes cut the fog, shadows wrap a breath I nearly lost, clawing up. It’s a tremor I thought was gone, too stubborn to fade.

A hum lingers, rattling spaces I’ve ignored, like wind on a frame I didn’t fix. Revival hums in heavy tones, threading shadow over scars I don’t hide. My hands shake, unraveling a quiet mess. It’s not freedom—it’s raw, notes tripping, air spilling in waves I didn’t plan. I’m torn open, letting the dark bite.

Each coin lost to the ledger stokes the fire—new sounds rise from cinders. It’s a tether: every piece dropped sparks a thread, winding through the unseen. Embers drift, waking currents in the dark, ready to break the hush. It’s a slow craft, shaping what’s still forming.

To claim it, you shed the alone—turn proxy, wired into something vast. Not a crowd, but a flow: each holder a spark in a hum that won’t quit. It’s not fitting in—it’s syncing to a shadow alive in the grind of what endures. You feel it, part of a machine always running.

Revival doesn’t ease in. It’s a thief returning what it took, bent, strange—a memory I’d buried. Sparks jump, weight settles into something solid. Edges scrape, haze clings to a rhythm I can’t shake. I’m worn by the tug of falling and rising, but there’s life in it—rough, real, thrumming.

Then it steadies. Not loud, but sure—a heartbeat cuts the noise, a root digs in. Notes soften, weight fits, shadows turn full, flawed but whole. I step back, ears buzzing: revival as a quiet stand, refusing to let go. It’s no triumph—just a pulse, a mark of what stayed. It ends with a breath—deep, steady, holding against the dark.

Written, produced, mixed, and mastered by DeadProxy.