I Am The Arrival (a stream of consciousness from the soundtrack’s soul)

...low hum. Am I breath or am I warning? No — I am not voice. I am the space before speech. The way your ribs ache in stillness.

I start in fog. Cold fog. Wet fog that knows things it shouldn’t. I know time. I know it sideways. I know your child’s name before she’s born and I scream it backwards in the bone of the cello. Strings. Strained. Pulled. Held at the edge of panic. Did you think I’d be beautiful? Fuck no. I’m not here for your comfort. I’m not here for your petty goddamn human plotlines. I arrive. I weigh.

Tick. Tick. Tock. What is a second when you’ve never known a beginning?

I am the circle that doesn’t start. I am the heptapod's language turned into aching tones. The language that melts you, that splits you, that informs you with grief before you’ve had a chance to feel hope.

Throb. Throb. A low drone — bass that crawls up your arse and sits in your chest like a bloody anvil. You try to ignore me but you can’t. You can’t ignore the sound of knowing.

I swell. I expand. I do not climax, you dumb prick — I unfurl. I am an event horizon of fucking emotion. No beat. No structure. Just pressure and memory.

And then — silence. Because I’ve already told you everything. I told you your daughter would die. I told you you'd love anyway. I told you that comprehension is suffering, and still, STILL, you begged for more. You opened your mind like a fool opens a locked box.

I am love you can’t stop. I am the inevitability of choice. I am the language that rewrote your fucking brain, cunt.

And I fade. Not because I’m done. But because I’ve already been.

I’m not music. I’m what music wants to be.

I am the Arrival.