A Ü T O/M Ö T O R

it was me floyd and brenmar
at the pigalle mansion off collins

like your ex-girl
before sundown
before the first performances started

firewall abolished
slang wave sonics
marble island and sconces
top off like wallace

at day off like broderick
contained in them boxes

way up on that leveling
but you pigeonholed
like chris tucker

madoff like card cracking imposters

got that name brand
yea
that name brand

but it shipped
directly from the province
(worldly)

she told me don't care about them
been around since pre-med
and her ticket for thursday

pressure sensitive oculars
on that syntax so watch the way you wording

watch the way that i'm skkkrting

asphalt rubber-phobic
loud squelch
tires sound like they birthing

feet up repeatedly
flashes revealing the scenery

this is not your line or your frequency

your more like bullock gatekeeper
not wikileaks

on the tre
they bent
like brims on ventra transit

off the brown
that remy card

pulled so unhuman

what a gambit

and she aint finna call you
swtich mode strategy
it cost too much to walkthrough

what you doing risqué
i aint into cliquebait x2

you should be utilized (whats good bro)
until you falter
then you crucified (look bro)

numb to it
like i been immunized

but lets just keep that
between you and i

i'm not for the rivalry
and it's not that you would lie on me

but i ain't have me life in me
got frozen nights in the street

not worth your gallardo

it's not worth a blog post
it's not worth it to argue

it's not worth mcdonald's

lattice edging sewer vent
spelled out for city

before the new addendum
to the skyline and
we was all tired of mayor daley

youth rendition on grid map
was true to size in its scaling
(log out)

utilitarian tech sport juxposted
wasn't called innovating
(thats normal)

you can't get correspondence
that's my mistake
(i'm not getting texts rn)

her friend walked me to the table
awwww that's click bait

saw you at lucien
with the slavic
ain't you her ex-man

we drift away
cause she was basic awwww
that's ex-plain

programming cancelled
jenny jones
i get it wrong

it's you, you, you, you, you,
and whats your name?
silly bone
(yall must be a harmonization group)

and she aint finna call you
swtich mode strategy
it cost too much to walkthrough
what you doing risqué
i aint into cliquebait x2

Lower Wacker Drive & Memory Loop

Lower Wacker Drive curves endlessly, subterranean lights sliding across the windshield, turning concrete pillars and shadows into a strobe-lit film reel of memories. The engine oscillates quiet beneath him, echoing against underground cavernous like a lullaby for the restless—a droning, pulling vyle. deeper inward, where the past is in view.

Miami, Art Basel, 2010. Or maybe it was 2012—the years blur, dates dissolving like sugar cubes in the heavy humidity of Miami nights. A convertible rolling gently down Collins Road, the lights of South Beach shimmering soft in the rearview, Shotta Spence reclining carefree against the warm wind, Brenmar riding shotgun nodding to a rhythm no one else hears. Floyd Johnson, the creator of "Ohio Against The World" (OATW), a Cincinnati native whose designs Rihanna wore proudly, years before the brand would become a beacon of Midwestern resilience, worn by LeBron and all those who carried the weight of their roots proudly on their shoulders. At the wheel, a girl, Miami native, untouched by the burdens the rest carried, navigating effortlessly toward a mansion event on Star Island, docks stretching out toward dreams of leisure.

It was his first trip to Art Basel, and he felt physically lighter, finally separated from the heaviness he'd carried for so long—the nights spent wandering through loss, the irreversible mistakes, and the grief with no exit. But distance, he learned, is only geography.

His phone buzzed—a harsh interruption. The voice on the other end belonged to someone who might have been a permanent figure in his life but would never be because she wielded cruelty like a blade. Weeks earlier, she'd left a jagged line across his neck with house keys, punishment for barring her from a Flosstradamus show at Lincoln Hall. Neighbors called police, yet when they arrived, witnessing blood tracing his collar, the responsibility was placed squarely on him:

Walk home. 20 blocks. Alone. Either that or 26th and California.

These are the stories that haunt, that follow certain men like shadows but leave others untouched. Even far from home, geography offered only a false sense of escape. He was distant from his troubles—but trouble wasn't distant from him.

Lower Wacker stretches forward endlessly, concrete arches passing overhead, fluorescent lights pulsing softly through the windshield, illuminating the recollections. He thinks of misplaced trust—ideas co-opted, diluted, reshaped into platinum records and multimillion-dollar empires. Women who treated him as a conversation piece, a bridge to worlds they couldn't truly inhabit. The shame of having swallowed the weight in silence, leaving it unspoken, unshared.

But then there's Chicago—the city that raised him, a world unto itself before the rest took notice. He recalls vividly the exact instant he coined the term "The New Chicago," inspired spontaneously after hearing collaborator Teki Latex create and claim "The New Paris" for his own music scene. It was effortless, prophetic—and maybe just another way of giving the outside world permission to take what was never theirs.

Yet still he drives forward, beneath the city he loves, the road stretching out like the endless, cyclical nature of culture, the endless loop of memory, innovation, theft, reclamation. And for a moment, with the steady drone of wheels beneath him, vyle. understands clearly—

Naming something is powerful, but it doesn't shield it from being claimed. It simply marks its existence, stakes its significance, declares its truth.

The frequency of memory, the hum of the engine beneath him, all fuse into one realization:

This was never geography, never simply distance—this was a circle, an infinite loop, and he was always meant to drive through it, again and again.