The Watchmaker s World

[intro]

[verse]
If the universe is narrow, fragile, stitched together by a single trembling thread,
Then every breath we shared is our single moment, never repeated or spread.
If the universe is finite, truly, then there is no echo of me writing this line —
Just this one version, one voice, one fragile truth running through your spine.

[verse]
If the cosmos is small and enclosed, tightly held like a truth in a locked wooden drawer —
Maybe that’s why I feel you so sharply, ’cause there’s no “somewhere else,” no “evermore” 
Maybe there are no copies, no shadows, no mirrored timelines drifting out of sight —
Just this single world, just this single chance, just this single fragile flicker of light.

[chorus]
God is a tired old man, hunched alone over a dusty wooden workbench,
Turning gears with his hands, winding clocks that refuse to stay straight.
He’s built a billion clocks, polished their every glass, adjusted their springs,
He still strains for meaning in uneven ticking, and hope slips right off his wings.

[verse]
If you peel back the sky gently, careful not to snap the thread that holds it in place,
You’ll find no multiverse waiting — just the quiet truth of a single, finite space.
No versions of us drifting elsewhere, no alternate endings waiting to unfold,
Just the story we lived, the choices we made, the way we were before it turned cold.

[verse]
And maybe it hurts not because we’re broken — because there’s no second try.
No cosmic rerun, no parallel mercy, no other “us” learning how not to say goodbye.
Finite things ache deeply — they bruise, they crack, they cling to what they adore,
And I’m clinging to you in this small universe, because there is no “somewhere more.”

[chorus]
God is a tired old man, hunched alone over a dusty wooden workbench,
Turning gears with his hands, winding clocks that refuse to stay straight.
He’s built a billion clocks, polished their every glass, adjusted their springs,
He still strains for meaning in uneven ticking, and hope slips right off his wings.

[verse]
And maybe somewhere in this tiny cosmos, there’s a version of us that didn’t break —
Not ‘cause another world saved them, but because they learned what we never could take.
Maybe they held each other tighter, knowing the universe wouldn’t give them more tries,
Knowing that their love in this fragile world is a miracle so hard to come by.

[verse]
Maybe they’re still out there — not far, not cosmic, not drifting in some endless night —
But right beside us, in this same small world, choosing each other with all their might.
And maybe that’s the version I pray for, the one I whisper to when the hours feel thin —
A universe small enough to keep us close, and fragile enough to let light in.

[chorus]
God is a tired old man, hunched alone over a dusty wooden workbench,
Turning gears with his hands, winding clocks that refuse to stay straight.
He’s built a billion clocks, polished their every glass, adjusted their springs,
He still strains for meaning in uneven ticking, and hope slips right off his wings.

[outro]

[chorus]
God is a tired old man, hunched alone over a dusty wooden workbench,
Turning gears with his hands, winding clocks that refuse to stay straight.
He’s built a billion clocks, polished their every glass, adjusted their springs,
He still strains for meaning in uneven ticking, and hope slips right off his wings.


My 24, 2026