A salivary breeze scoops derrick boo’s limpid keyboard spores, ferrying these swatches of paper thin melody through the cracked windows of neighborhood restrooms. Reaching their final stop, the busload of fungal pupils take alphabetical seats on the white-chocolate linoleum tiles that ascend from your tub’s porcelain slope — hi-hat beads trickle from the faucet, its handle turned a degree too far to the right.
Emitting the aural scent of 2-in-one shampoo and body wash, “let’s be” drips from above, bubbling on fingertips and stinging the eyes as it filters through follicles. The scalding stream cradles you in its mesmeric drizzle. derrick boo fills his glass with retro-braindance ambience, dropping in a colorless capsule that quickly disintegrates, forming a future-trap fizz at the meniscus.
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