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cafe select
voice memo sent
she said
dont tell me how much
your assistant gets
no more

decrypted file box on the desk
she said i dont have to have him
in my head
no more

amistad out the garage
feel exonerated
turbulent city system wire work complicated

she said its ladies night
we already done that
marmalade'd it

she extensions finger waves
well im glad you made it

search engine database
the way she pull them statements

undercover train rider
with her friend
dressed like a vagrant

just left fashion house foundation
sounding like infotainment

you came back with that accent
she said I'm accentuated

her burberry camouflage
not google print on those

scan ticket eurostar
contemporary gallery interview

oculars still display
what she put em through

and they recount that
in different intervals

everytime cross paths
been aligned still contention point molehill
so we act like it's cyclical

if we just captured a fragment
of what we get into

walled conversations
could only make it out the living room

cafe select
voice memo sent
she said
dont tell me how much
your assistant gets
no more

decrypted file box on the desk
she said i dont have to have him
in my head
no more
orientation summation
like you new to this

architecture tutelage
under structure brutalist

hourly shuttle drives
aside where the ruins is

twoflat habitat loiterers
divet breezeway feudalist

i know that
were from those

brick lined crevices
elevator won't move

station viceroy trickle down
tried to buy our watch

rebuy the block
renovate the viaduct

municipal chaperon
rendered ineffective

alert systemwide
innocuous trojan as it as weapon

keyfob authenticate
lock unlatched itself in sections

run diagnostics during startup
read and write protected

stalagmite condensate
what's that teardrop recollections

she always with the clothes
workstation build development
always with the code

she raceway driving gloves
over curvature
she always in control

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Lower East Side / Bowery.

A late afternoon, or maybe night—unclear.

The sterile glow of incubator lighting, the uneven rhythm of conversation, halfwork, halfdaydream, half-digesting the city's noise.

A woman—someone visiting, someone listening, someone frustrated.

She grips her coffee cup tighter, her brow furrowed as vyle. mentions gallery budgets.

"Wait—so you're telling me these people get paid? Like actually paid? With real money?"

She's not asking because she doesn't believe him. She's asking because she does.

Because she knows that art is money, but only for the chosen few—the ones already seated at the table, passing plates among themselves while everyone else fights for crumbs.

"And you just sit with that?"

She doesn't get it.

But vyle. has seen both sides of the door.

He's seen how the money moves, how it stays silent, how it stays hidden, how it stays between the same hands.

And yet, it's the same money that lets you drive out of a Chicago parking garage with the windows down, free for a moment, before the city pulls you back in.

The same money that lets people come back to the block after a few months away, their voices suddenly touched by another city—vowel shifts, new slang, an adopted twang that wasn't there before.

Embarrassing.

Like they weren't raised right. Like they forgot where they came from. Like Chicago doesn't follow you wherever you go.

There's no reason for your accent to change.

No reason to pretend you weren't shaped by the Zero Point. By the Lake. By the Blocks.

Chicago is in you or it isn't.

No matter how many months you spend in New York. No matter how many rooftop parties or private dinners or "creative director" job titles you collect like Pokémon cards.

Still, they always come back—and sometimes, the city doesn't even recognize them anymore.

But still—money doesn't buy culture.

Because some people's regular is others' innovation.

The neighborhood kid with the sharp ear, the natural rhythm, the way he pieces together melodies without thinking—that's genius.

The girl who can flip a thrift store find into an ensemble that fashion week interns will copy a year later—that's talent.

But talent doesn't always get recognized.

Only repurposed. Repackaged. Sold back to us at five times the price.

And speaking of price—

There's always the question of what something is worth.

The value of a woman in a relationship, the way it's measured, the shifting economy of affection.

The ex, and her friend, dressing up as pedestrians, blending into the sidewalk—trying to catch him cheating, convinced of an infidelity that never existed.

He wasn't even meeting anyone.

Just stepping outside, to ride the Green Line.

Because sometimes the movement itself is the destination.

But some people only see what they want to see.

The mind locked on brands, on ownership, on proof of status.

Smart locks for domiciles. Smart locks for hearts.

Everything under surveillance.

Even the things that were never lost to begin with.