Ridge Runner - The Kid & The Stratosphere

Architecture of Thought
“Folks, I figured it out. The universe isn’t run by politicians, bankers, or priests. It’s run by your dumb little thoughts. One stray idea in your head, and reality goes, ‘Oh, we’re doing this? Okay, let me build a whole nightmare around it.’ Thoughts aren’t ideas,Theyre blueprints. You think it, the cosmos starts pouring concrete. And suddenly you’re trapped in the prison your own brain designed. Congratulations!
You’re the architect of your own humiliation.”

[Intro]
“Folks, I figured it out. The universe isn’t run by politicians, bankers, or priests. It’s run by your dumb little thoughts. One stray idea in your head, and reality goes, ‘Oh, we’re doing this? Okay, let me build a whole nightmare around it.’ Thoughts aren’t ideas,Theyre blueprints. You think it, the cosmos starts pouring concrete. And suddenly you’re trapped in the prison your own brain designed. Congratulations!

You’re the architect of your own humiliation.”

[Verse]
One dumb thought in my head today
The cosmos whispered
"Let's play"
A stray idea
A reckless seed
And now the ground's beneath my feet

[Prechorus]
Pour the concrete
Lay the bars
Cage my mind
Build the scars

[Chorus]
Blueprints
Blueprints
Oh can't you see
The prison walls are made by me
I thought it once
It spun so fast
Now I'm the architect of my own collapse

[Verse 2]
A nightmare blooms where dreams should grow
The universe just needs a "go"
It doesn't wait
It doesn't pause
A thought becomes the final clause

[Prechorus]
Brick by brick
And line by line
The cosmos laughs
"This mess is mine"

[Chorus]
Blueprints
Blueprints
Oh can't you see
The prison walls are made by me
I thought it once
It spun so fast
Now I'm the architect of my own collapse

“So I’m on the bus, thinking: ‘Cut through Woolworth’s, save five minutes.’
That’s it. That’s the spell.
Next thing I know, I’m in a pool hall explaining to a biker gang why I want my money back.
And they’re looking at me like I’m rather unwanted dead meat.
That’s the cosmic joke, man. One shortcut in your head, and the universe builds a whole beating around it.

[Intro]
“So I’m on the bus, thinking: ‘Cut through Woolworth’s, save five minutes.’
That’s it. That’s the spell.
Next thing I know, I’m in a pool hall explaining to a biker gang why I want my money back.
And they’re looking at me like I’m rather unwanted dead meat.
That’s the cosmic joke, man. One shortcut in your head, and the universe builds a whole beating around it.

[Verse]
The bus hums low like a broken dream
Thought I'd save time with a backstreet scheme
Woolworth's cut-through calling my name
One small thought sparks a hurricane

[Chorus]
Shortcut to trouble yeah it's all in my head
Turn left for freedom turn right for dread
One quick fix now the dice are cast
Shortcut to trouble and the trouble's fast

[Verse 2]
Pool hall neon's buzzing sharp and mean
Biker eyes like wolves in a bad daydream
They want my money I want my skin
Shortcut whispers "You’ll never win"

[Prechorus]
Every step’s a riddle every breath’s a dare
Cosmic joke’s laughing in the thin night air

[Chorus]
Shortcut to trouble yeah it's all in my head
Turn left for freedom turn right for dread
One quick fix now the dice are cast
Shortcut to trouble and the trouble's fast

[Bridge]
Thoughts are spells and spells are knives
Cut through corners cutting lives
The map’s a lie the truth’s a mess
Shortcuts curse what they profess

Reality’s not passive—it’s the world’s greatest improv troupe. You throw out a dumb idea, it says, ‘Yes, and…’”
Abracadabra! Presto! And Ala Kazam!
“And once the universe knows you’re dumb enough to trust your own thoughts,
it doesn’t stop. It’s like cable television—it just keeps pumping garbage into your life.
You’re not living, you’re channel‑surfing through your own bad decisions.

[Intro]
Reality’s not passive—it’s the world’s greatest improv troupe. You throw out a dumb idea, it says, ‘Yes, and…’”
"Abracadabra! Presto! And Ala Kazam!"
“And once the universe knows you’re dumb enough to trust your own thoughts,
it doesn’t stop. It’s like cable television—it just keeps pumping garbage into your life.
You’re not living, you’re channel‑surfing through your own bad decisions.

[Verse]
Reality’s got jokes it loves to pull
Throws me a curveball then plays it cool
I said one word it said "Yes and…"
Now I’m juggling chaos with both hands

[Prechorus]
Every idea’s a rabbit hole
And I’m Alice losing control

[Chorus]
Abracadabra! Presto! Ala Kazam!
I’m stuck in the circus I never planned
Flipping through channels of my own bad schemes
It’s all just reruns of my shattered dreams

[Verse 2]
Tried to outsmart it with a master plan
The universe laughed said "Try again man"
I’m not living I’m just flipping through
The sitcom of me chasing déjà vu

[Bridge]
Oh remote control where’s the rewind
Fast forward my mess leave it behind
But no the screen just keeps glitching
This bad idea train ain’t switching

[Chorus]
Abracadabra! Presto! Ala Kazam!
I’m stuck in the circus I never planned
Flipping through channels of my own bad schemes
It’s all just reruns of my shattered dreams

“Next thought: ‘I’ll grab a quick sandwich at the lunch counter.’
Sounds innocent, right?
Suddenly the guy behind the counter tells me the sandwich is cursed.
He says, ‘Eat this, and you’ll see the truth.’
And I’m like, ‘Buddy, I wanted pastrami, not enlightenment. I’m not ready to meet God between two slices of rye.’
But that’s how thought works—it doesn’t stop at lunch.
It builds a mystical subplot around your appetite.
Suddenly I’m chewing bread and questioning the nature of reality.
Pastrami shouldn’t be a portal, but here we are.”
“Final thought, Ill hop off the bus early, take the alley through Kensington.’
Boom—instant initiation ritual.
The graffiti looks like scripture,
a guy’s selling incense that smells like regret,
and a stray cat stares at me like it knows my karma.
That’s when I realize: every thought is a spell.
You don’t cast it with wands—you cast it with shortcuts, sandwiches, and bad decisions.
And the universe? It’s the world’s greatest improv troupe.
You throw out a dumb idea, and it builds the whole scene around you.
That’s magick, folks. That’s creation. That’s comedy.
And the joke’s always on you.”
“So yeah, thoughts have substance. They’re bricks, they’re spells, they’re scripts. And me? I’m just the kid who keeps writing bad ones. But hey—at least it’s material. And if you don’t laugh at it, you’ll cry. And if you cry, the universe will build a whole sitcom around your tears.”
“That’s the punchline of existence, folks. You think you’re hungry, but you’re starving for meaning.
And the universe will serve it to you—whether you ordered it or not.”
“Welcome to the show!”
When the Kid tells his story, The shortcut through Woolworth’s, the pastrami prophecy, the Kensington detour—to his buddy “Reb”, who we all regarded as a bit of a mystic, the exchange becomes less about comedy and more about initiation.
Listening Without Judgment, Reb doesn’t laugh or scold. He listens as if each absurd detail—the biker gang, the cursed sandwich, the alley cat—is a sacred text.
Reframing the Chaos, Reb tells the Kid,“Every humiliation is a scripture. Every stray thought is a spell. You are learning that the mind is not a servant but a magician—one that conjures worlds whether you ask it to or not.”
“You see, the shortcut wasn’t about saving time—it was about seeing how thought builds karmic architecture.
The pastrami wasn’t lunch—it was initiation into the truth that appetite itself is a portal.
The Kensington alley wasn’t a detour—it was a temple disguised as graffiti and regret.
Reb reminded the Kid that thought has substance, but it is not ultimate reality. The real lesson is to witness the thought without being trapped in its construction.
The Kid sees that his misadventures aren’t random—they’re demonstrations of how thought actuates reality.
His comedy becomes scripture, the punchlines are parables, the absurdities are initiations.
He realizes that telling the story itself is magick, the act of naming the chaos transforms humiliation into art.
Reb smiles and says, “Yes. You are already practicing the highest form of magick. You take the substance of thought, the architecture of humiliation, and you transmute it into laughter. That is liberation. That is the sound of the soul remembering itself.”
Reb (pointing upward), “Your thoughts go up to the Stratosphere and bounce back down to become reality. Depending on the strength of your will and belief, they will solidify to some degree or another in our world… sometimes as notions, sometimes as ghosts, and sometimes as grand designs.”
The Kid (squinting, half‑laughing), “So you’re telling me my shortcut through Woolworth’s went orbital?
Like NASA launched it, bounced it off the Stratosphere, and re‑entered as a biker gang beating?
Man, I thought I was just late for the bus. Turns out I’m an architect of ghosts.”
Reb (calm, smiling), “Yes. Even the smallest thought is a seed. The cosmos does not care if it is wise or foolish—it will grow it all the same.”
The Kid (leaning in, riffing), “Great. So my brain’s not just a bad landlord, it’s Houston Mission Control.
Every dumb idea I have gets cosmic airtime.
And depending on how much I believe in it, it comes back as pastrami prophecies, alleyway temples, or pool hall grand designs.
No wonder every day feels like a cosmic prank.”
Reb (nodding), “The prank is the teaching. The joke is the scripture. You are learning that thought is substance, and substance is destiny.”
The Kid (grinning, shaking his head).“Destiny? Man, I can’t even handle lunch.
But I get it—you’re saying the real trick is learning which thoughts deserve a launch, and which ones should stay grounded.
Otherwise, I’m just out here firing off cosmic bottle rockets, waiting for them to crash‑land on my life.”
Reb (softly), “And yet, even your bottle rockets illuminate the night sky.
Do not curse the chaos, it is the comedy of the soul remembering itself.”
The Kid (smirks), “Alright, Reb. Next time I think about pastrami, I’ll check if it’s worth sending to orbit.
Otherwise, I’ll keep it grounded… maybe just a tuna sandwich.
Less cosmic fallout.”
Reb gestures, and suddenly the Kid sees it:
Above them, thoughts streak upward like sparks—tiny, glowing fragments. Some fizzle out before reaching the dome. Others bounce back down, heavy, luminous, reshaping the streets below.
A stray thought drifts upward, “I’ll grab a sandwich.”
It bounces back down as a flicker: a lunch counter, pastrami on rye, nothing more than a notion.
Reb says: “These are the lightest. They pass through your life like whispers. These are ghosts. They haunt, they linger, they remind you of the weight of belief.”
Finally, a thought rockets upward—“I’ll save time with a shortcut.”
It slams against the dome, rebounds with force, and manifests as a full stage: pool hall, biker gang, fists waiting.
Reb says: “These are grand designs. Strong belief builds architecture. The world obeys the blueprint of your conviction.”