Seven

I'm keeping my commission to faith's transmission
Two speakers dream the same and skies turn red
Satellites flashing down Orchard and Delancey
I can't get laid 'cause everyone is dead

Hey, gold connections
Analog soul waving in your hair
Hey, hylozoic directions
She's talking blue streaks everywhere

Your spirit is time-reversed to your body
Stereographic mix-up, field on field
It started growing up the day your body dies
Only apparently, real to irreal

Hey, stereo stations
Perfect image, kneel down
Hey, hypostatic information
Come on, let's hear you turn around