The following takes place in an alternative universe called ‘Rage’, in which the common tongue is Syllablism, or the act of speaking only in related, corresponding words. The people of this world eat and drink, forget and forgive, repair and destroy like we do, except this world offers them more. Like how the brain only operates at 5%, so does our world and the space in which it exists. The people of Rage operate at 100, and so their story will be told in a hundred portions. I lived there for 6 months myself, but was released onto Earth when my existence became known. There, I am known as Patient Zero. Here, I am just a writer, and so here I will tell their stories.

TRACK ONE
OUT FOR ME [Prod. Baileys Brown]

Short of bite,
He’s marauding with the sword of might, sporting mics and an awful chortle for the portal flight,
He was mourning the thesaurus he was born to write, scornful-like, he’d deform enormously in morning light,
He’d escort the court performer for the slaughter type [dormant-like], saw the light with the sort of slaughter of a Walter White,
He was normal in his formal right to dawdle with the portions and morsels of this mortally important night

Poison chalice,
He’s poised to foil the immortal callous portal that would court the maliced chortles of a formal palace,
He was morsels of a mortal that had thought had managed normal with the sort of palette coursing in a warbled ballad,
He’s awarded rabid choruses of war and acid, snorting in the porous magic, sourcing it in portioned static,
He’s automatic with his sureness and his roaring tragic shortage of importance, classics orbiting his raw fanatics

Out for me,
It was the fountain or the balcony, how can he surround the insurmountable with falconry?
He’s held accountable for mountains of his palpably uncountable and bountiful pronouncements of his alchemy

Out for me,
It was the fountain or the balcony, how can he surround the insurmountable with falconry?
He’s held accountable for mountains of his palpably uncountable and bountiful pronouncements of his alchemy

Type a psalm,
He was a writer with a fighter’s arm, vital charm tightens in his iris as his lighter calms,
He was enlightened on the eyeless, the papyrus farms, tyrant smarm and the light Aquinas with the finest garm,
He was describing the presiding of a rising palm slicing that’s enticing the environment of heightened charm,
They’re abiding by the pirate of the brightest qualm, slightest harm minuses the virus as the violence calms

Vanquisher,
He was enamoured with the trafficker of malice in the palace through the channels of an aquifer,
It’s a palette that was tacit in its calibre, facets of his valour from the travels of his character,
He’s attacking with the callousness of Salinger, challenging a maverick in annals of an amateur,
He’s a Catholic that hammered the parameters of balance in a ballad that was stammered in a massacre

Out for me,
It was the fountain or the balcony, how can he surround the insurmountable with falconry?
He’s held accountable for mountains of his palpably uncountable and bountiful pronouncements of his alchemy

Out for me,
It was the fountain or the balcony, how can he surround the insurmountable with falconry?
He’s held accountable for mountains of his palpably uncountable and bountiful pronouncements of his alchemy