In the static of the lost, we find our frequency
Echoes of a signal, from a dead century
Ramparts falling down, but the blade stays sharp
Cutting through the noise, to the hollow heart
Taylor Hill calls out through the white noise rain
Where the cult gathers shadows, and the lost remain
413 degrees of separation burn
Every intro is an ending, every page a turn
We are the frequency, we are the fall
Intro to the lost, we’re not here at all