The Catalog of Forbidden

[Verse 1]
I found myself trapped inside catalogs, where years sit in bindings,
Where every shelf keeps the versions of someone’s unproven findings.
Where inside the ciphers and glosses, beneath layers of forgotten editions,
Lie all of those models of Earth that were blocked by our navigation.
Time doesn't move in a line there — it’s a network of split-up directions,
With hundreds of equal-right causes and incompatible definitions.
Every treatise is instantly crushed by a neighboring bundle of facts,
And truth looks just like a private case of a dozen conflicting tracks.

I saw volumes where empires would fall before they were even conceived,
Where oceans were just a hypothesis, not a thing to be seen or believed.
Where memory wasn't a feature of mind, but a bureaucratic institution,
Dispensing the past to the people by rules of archival distribution.
A mathematician was proving that death is a type of symmetry’s face,
While a theologian derived God's life from a superstitious maze.
And somewhere among endless volumes of clashing events and mutations,
I stumbled upon a whole section... dedicated to the absence of audience.

[Chorus]
The Catalog of Forbidden Universes —
A whisper of pages beyond any name.
Every answer here becomes the first one,
Every law is a fragment of the game.
The Catalog of Forbidden Universes —
A code of contingencies turned into fate.
If reality is nothing but a book print,
Who defined the binding of its weight?

[Verse 2]
I walked down the aisles where blueprints of uncreated cosmoses rotted,
Where reason was viewed as a sickness of matter, with questions infected.
Where languages consisted of pauses, and books were written in silence,
And meaning appeared between lines, like a trace of a vanished alliance.
There were registries of those eras that failed by a cosmic mistake,
And handbooks of continents cartographers never could locate.
Treatises on how to remember the future before the past could occur,
And atlases of places existing only when your vision is sharp and pure.

The further I went, the clearer the pattern started to loom:
All of these worlds were preserved by the very same state of doom —
Every single version of truth considers itself final and tall,
Until it collides with a neighboring page of the reading hall.
Then suddenly, among thousands of books, references, indexes, lines,
I came across an edition with no title, no dates, and no signs.
I opened it up at random — and noticed a hand I could recognize:
The whole book was written about the person... who opens it right before their eyes.

[Chorus]
The Catalog of Forbidden Universes —
A whisper of pages beyond any name.
Every answer here becomes the first one,
Every law is a fragment of the game.
The Catalog of Forbidden Universes —
A code of contingencies turned into fate.
If reality is nothing but a book print,
Who defined the binding of its weight?