Sleepy faded from blunt rotations. Trash at your feet in the backseat of a ‘94 hndacvc. Blunt gut flakes lodged in the door handle. That look they gave you last Thursday still floating around your loopy head.
Lost in the concrete without a destination. Just blinking at street lights. Another rotation. Another circle around the block. Taking corners slowly. Things seem to loop. Peel. None of your friends can freestyle, but this beat doesn’t need it. Good to loop. Good to go.
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