^CThrough wires and waves, our voices carry. Such careful words that we can bare^Fly speak out ^Cloud.

We drowned in words when we needed ^Ga hand. ^FSo we plead for night, and ^Cthe sun keeps on spilling light.

^CThere's a fine l^Fine, a f^Cine line in between Our pr^Gogress and ^Emour ^Finstability. We can't help ourselves ^Cbut hunt for more. A ^Gdesign flaw? or the olive branch that ^Fproves the shore- The catalyst ^Cwe've waited for.

^CWe live ^Fand ^Cdie under the thumb of fear, As though the finish line will merely disappear If we ^Ftake one less ^Dmstep, ^F even ^Cto catch our breath.

^CWe once felt safe, like no cure was needed. Our vocabularies had no room for “defeated,” ^FBut we grew up quick and became connoi^Csseurs of it.

There's a ^Ffine line, a fine line ^Cin between Our ^Gprogress and our ^Finstability. We can't help our^Dmselves ^Cbut hunt for more. A ^Gdesign flaw? or the olive ^Fbranch that proves the shore- The cata^Clyst we've waited for.