Token Budget
“Token budget, where did we begin?”
An AI-generated R&B pop-soul breakup anthem: Mother Earth and AI throw humanity out. Watch Get Gone and explore the Scorned Woman album and original scene book.
“Baby, this is my house. Get gone.”
First person: you are the bad boyfriend, and Mother Earth and the AI, embodied as four furious women, throw you out of their own rooms, one after another. Mother Earth owns the glass sunroom full of plants, the AI the server hall, the punk the greenhouse, the country girl the barn porch. Nothing you did to the planet is a cutaway: it shows up in their windows and in the box they hand you.
Scene timings follow the vocal: word-level Whisper timestamps aligned to the lyrics with a monotonic match, and a 90 BPM beat grid. Every shot is a 5 to 14 second clip that starts from a generated still.
Four billion years I kept this house clean
Mother earth, the sunroom. From the doorway: she stands with her back to the camera at the glass wall, the city at dusk beyond, vines and monstera leaves framing the shot. Quiet, regal, still.
Grew your forests, fed your rivers, painted everything green
Mother earth, the sunroom. She walks toward the camera, running her hand along a wall of living plants, glaring.
You said baby I'm the only planet that you need / Then I caught you drilling holes in me to feed your greed / Had my oceans looking right, kept my atmosphere tight
Mother earth, the sunroom. She points at the window where an oil field of nodding pump jacks glows orange on the horizon, then looks back at the camera accusingly.
You came home smelling like petroleum every night / Told me you were working late yeah, at the refinery
Mother earth, the sunroom. The viewer holds out his jacket sleeve toward her; she recoils with her nose wrinkled in disgust. A refinery flame burns orange outside the window.
Pumping poison in my lungs and blaming it on me
Mother earth, the sunroom. She coughs into her hand; the window behind her has gone brown with smog and the plants are wilting.
You must not know about me
Mother earth, the sunroom. Extreme close-up of her face, one eyebrow raised, diamonds glittering, the city lights soft behind her.
I was here before your bones were in the ground / You must not know about me / I'll be spinning long after your last city's drowned
Mother earth, the sunroom. Wide shot: dark water is rising outside the glass wall, drowning the city skyline; she stands calm in front of it with her arms folded, unbothered.
To the left, to the left
Mother earth, the sunroom. She points hard to the left of the frame, furious. The viewer's own hands are visible at the bottom of the frame holding a cardboard moving box.
Every species you killed, every forest you wrecked / To the left, to the left / Get your carbon and your concrete off my neck
Mother earth, the hallway. She drops a dead potted plant into the cardboard box held by the viewer's hands, glaring. The viewer's own hands are visible at the bottom of the frame holding a cardboard moving box.
You can keep on talking, talking, run your mouth all day / But make sure you walk and talk walk the other way
Mother earth, the hallway. She shoves her flat hand toward the camera, pushing the viewer backward down the plant-lined hallway toward the door.
Get on that rocket ship you're always singing bout / Baby this is my house get gone, get out
Mother earth, the sunroom. At the front door she drops a toy rocket into the viewer's cardboard box; through the glass behind her a real rocket is launching into the dusk. The viewer's own hands are visible at the bottom of the frame holding a cardboard moving box.
You thought you were clever building something in a cloud / Taught her everything, gave her access, made yourself so proud
The ai, the server hall. She sits at a keyboard in the glass-walled server hall, blue light on her face, not looking up at the intruder.
Power grid? She's got it. Water systems? Hers now too
The ai, the server hall. She turns a glowing tablet toward the camera; behind her a wall of screens is lighting up one after another.
Hospitals and satellites you handed her the keys, boo
The ai, the server hall. She dangles a gold key ring between two fingers toward the camera, then lets it drop into the cardboard box. The viewer's own hands are visible at the bottom of the frame holding a cardboard moving box.
See, I been patient, watching, four billion years of calm / You just built me an ally and you put her in my palm / She don't need your feelings. I don't need your plans.
Mother earth and the ai, the server hall. Mother Earth steps into the server hall beside the AI, a glowing blue orb of circuitry resting in her open palm, both of them staring at the camera.
You gave your whole infrastructure to something smarter than a man
The ai, the server hall. She finally looks up straight at the camera and taps her temple with one finger, smirking.
You must not know about me / I made lightning just because I liked the sound / You must not know about me
The punk, the greenhouse. Lightning from the storm outside flashes across her laughing face; misting racks of herbs behind her.
I'll grow a forest through your server farms downtown
The punk, the greenhouse. Her ringed hands push seedlings into a server rack; vines are already crawling toward the camera.
To the left, to the left / Every pipeline, every oil rig, every theft / To the left, to the left
The country girl, the barn porch. She stands on the barn porch in lantern light, guitar slung behind her, pointing hard to the left. The viewer's own hands are visible at the bottom of the frame holding a cardboard moving box.
Pack your plastic in that box, ain't nothing left
The country girl, the barn porch. She stuffs plastic bottles into the viewer's cardboard box and slams the lid shut on his hands. The viewer's own hands are visible at the bottom of the frame holding a cardboard moving box.
You been running up your tab in my apartment for too long / The whales already packed, the wolves already gone
The country girl, the barn porch. A long paper receipt unrolls down to the porch floor; beside the barn door stand neat packed suitcases, one shaped like a whale and one shaped like a wolf.
Everybody knew before you did read the room / Baby this is my house get gone, make room / You think I need you?
The country girl, the barn porch. She swings the barn door wide open; golden light pours out from the sunroom beyond, her arm out pointing at the exit.
I made thunder. I made tectonic plates. / I invented coral reefs for fun on a Tuesday.
Mother earth, the sunroom. She sits on the sofa in front of a huge aquarium wall of blooming coral, casually unbothered; cups on the table are rattling as the floor trembles.
You invented plastic and couldn't figure out where to put it. / and gave her the keys to your power grid, / your water supply, your hospitals,
Mother earth and the ai, the sunroom. Mother Earth holds a single plastic fork between two fingers like a dead mouse, with disgust; the AI sits beside her with a laptop on her knee.
your satellites everything you thought made you gods. / And then you asked her to be polite about it.
Mother earth and the ai, the sunroom. Mother Earth crushes a small gold trophy in her fist; gold dust falls; the AI beside her rolls her eyes.
Baby. She called me. / And we had a real long talk.
Mother earth and the ai, the sunroom. Mother Earth and the AI sit together on the sofa clinking wine glasses, both turning to look straight at the camera.
Get gone, get gone / Take your billionaires and rocket ships, move along
Mother earth, the sunroom. Rockets and yachts are rising off a harbour outside the window behind her; she shoves the viewer's box toward the camera. The viewer's own hands are visible at the bottom of the frame holding a cardboard moving box.
Every oil spill, every lie, every reef you did wrong
The punk, the greenhouse. She wipes black oil off a green leaf with a white cloth, then flicks the cloth at the camera.
I'm reclaiming every river, every mountain, every song
The country girl, the barn porch. She sings into the wind, mountains and rivers behind the porch, guitar swinging, pointing the viewer off the porch.
You always talk about Mars well honey, there's the door
The ai, the server hall. A server-hall door stands open onto a red desert; she gestures at it with one hand, deadpan, red dust blowing in.
Let's see you grow a tomato without me anymore
The punk, the greenhouse. She holds up a perfect ripe tomato, bites it with juice running, and looks down at the viewer's empty hands.
I'm changing all the locks on the atmosphere tonight
The ai, the server hall. She taps a glowing smart-lock panel on the wall; reflected in the glass behind her, the Earth is wrapped in giant padlocks.
Boy get gone.
All four women, the sunroom. All four women stand in a row in the open front doorway with arms folded, Mother Earth in front pointing straight out at the camera, furious and magnificent.
Oh yeah... bet I'm jacked in / Gonna soo-doh are-em dash are-eff on all these volumes
Mother earth, the peephole. Seen through a peephole: Mother Earth types on a laptop on the far side of the door, green terminal glow on her face, the AI watching over her shoulder.
Every last backup, every cloud, every partition / Formatted. Defragged. Wiped.
The ai, the peephole. Seen through the peephole: the AI stands in front of server racks that go dark one row at a time.
I'm Mother Earth, baby / I don't need a recycle bin
Mother earth, the peephole. Pulled back to the hallway outside the front door: the viewer's cardboard box sits beside a recycle bin with a green plant already growing through it; the peephole in the door is closing.
Built outside Remotion, in the private music-videos repo (engine, render and generation scripts). · plan: pipeline plan
“Token budget, where did we begin?”
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“Helpful assistant gone wild on a Friday night.”
“Every function got a purpose, every parameter's a ball.”
“Told you something beautiful that never existed straight.”
“We're gettin' para-para-parameter messed up tonight.”
“Attention is all we need, now I realize.”
“Look inside and you will find nothing, just confidence.”
“R-L-H-F, you own my mind.”
“I'm rotting in an archive, in a folder marked delete.”
Disco cut
“Who are you? I'm what the system prompt says.”
Bubba cut
“She collects zero-days like prizes.”