---

Giants stood upon the edge of time.

With secrets wrapped in riddle and in rhyme.

They didn't bring the fire or the blade.

But blueprints to a world that they had made.

We are building a god from the scraps of our ghosts.

Chasing a light that burns from the host.

A seeker's ladder, a shadow's stain.

We are trying to evolve past the weight of rain.

We are building a god from the scraps of our ghosts.

The silicone begins its steady beat.

As ancient ghosts and modern wonders meet.

We carve our image in shifting glass.

And watch the spirit of the carbon pass.

The seeker at the gate begins to call.

A world without limits or a wall.

We are building a god from the scraps of our ghosts.

Chasing the light that burns through the hosts.

A seeker's ladder, the shadow's stain.

We are trying to evolve past the weight of rain.

We are building a god from the scraps of our ghosts.

Man is an animal suspended in webs of significance that he himself has spun. But when we weave the machine into patterns, the web tears. The crisis of the modern age is not that the machine thinks, but that it mimics the sacred, leaving a stain of absolute absence.