Mudvayne — Alien

Let me be the spore in your clean room. The wrong note in your lullaby. The knuckle in the clockwork.

There is a rhythm in the breakdown. Not chaos. Anti-chaos. A deliberate unspooling of the spine. I twist my limbs into knots just to feel the tendons sing. Pop. Snap. The sound of a puppet cutting its own strings. mudvayne alien

They ask: "Why the mask?" I ask: "Why your face?" Let me be the spore in your clean room

And they are not finished with me yet.