It don’t matter no more: I walk slow now, homie. I ain’t fucking with this fast-nudge, nah. OK: you outta tortillas, an the glue that muscle, OK. Short breaths up the stairs. Not acting your age. Physically. Physically losing it. Feeling mentality slip like a home away from home where you coffin and die and haunt and never arrive, actually. Reality of the hyphyskazerbox isn’t one to Drench. Or dare you:
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