trench on wave x8
still revered on the road back
we on the stairs
beyond reproach
gang in the vessel
lakefront alleyway
horn announcement
if you bend through
when mid-level luxury
interior textile felt like credenza
speedbump acts like facial recognition
process your credentials
same crib where they found out bout
wallet hierarchy
wireless hotspot
geolocator
off a proxy
kenwood liquor reciepts
littered
as she fidgets through the car seat
we bout to slide up north
be back a couple hours
prolly
see it in her face
she interfacing particulate
we all propelled by quad flats
like diplomatic michelins
its in her nose x2
and on monthly aggregate
bank statement reports
counsel negotiate
barter everything she owned
stone faced stoic posture
she watches it as it erode
as powdered as fair shade
she couldn't get a loan
if they see raheem in traffic
hopefully not when alone
trench on wave x8
still revered on the road back
she asked them
why they huddled for
q7
infiniti
circle blocks cumbersome
paladin of bubble coats
slim hiding (hedi slimane)
way before celine
and you better know
where exit threshold
of that gangway leads
ingelside fatigues
nacho cheese
and them chico things
powerball flashing
refracting
off that regal thang
signifance of bensonhurst
around same time as eagleman
second city
nemonic image retrival mayne
partial elevation
the whole building is a zaha
paneling is ando
rooftop they play mahjong
ultieres and laterals
the friendships that we passed on
shook hands
knocked that mask off
velcro tight
unfastened
thicker than thieves
customized lightcycle
picking up speed
inside machinations
indiscriminately
brought to tears
when we compromised
you're telling me
she it's so said hard to apologize
(sorry guys)
trench on wave x8
still revered on the road back
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vyle. stands in the thick of it, the air dense with the kind of smoke and static that only settles when the night has stretched too long, when the edges of reality start to blur.
The murmur of the city outside pulses against the windows, but inside Judi's house, time moves differently—slower, heavier, detached.
He watches the alabaster powder get measured, split, pressed into quartered Ziploc bags.
Hands moving in rhythm, fast but methodical, preparing for the night ahead—whether it was the club, the backrooms, or just another makeshift economy unfolding in dimly lit corners.
The alleys outside are guarded. Always.
You never knew who was watching, who was plotting.
The weight of it all settles in his chest, but his mind is elsewhere—in a museum, in the future, in a different timeline where this isn't the way things have to be.
He sees it clear as day—a Prada USB drive, a massive installation piece occurring in a future he knows but hasn't yet seen, displayed under stark white lights.
Something that meant something, something that carried all of this, everything, and recontextualized it into something else.
But for now, that vision is just another ghost in the room.
The transactions begin. Money. Favors. Bodies.
Exchange is fluid when desperation is the currency.
The late-night turns into an early morning like it always does, freestyles filling the air, verses so sharp they should've been documented, but never were.
Pulitzer-level similes lost to the ether, swallowed by the night, vanishing as quickly as they arrived.
Transients line the floor. People who came for the night but had no plans beyond it.
Even Judi, who owns this space for now, floats through her mother's room, shuffling ephemera, scooping up loose currency.
She's grieving too. Her mother, gone also. Happening months after Norma was lost.
And the drugs hit harder because they have to, because there's no other way to quiet it all down.
vyle. thinks about his own mistakes.
The feral mode he entered after losing his mother, hitting stains, pulling from whoever and whereever he could.
Not because he wanted to, because the family he's too ashamed to inform about his status might have actually understood him in those moments,
but because he felt destined to follow other products of his environment.
He'd seen it before—people stealing from the ones they loved and still being loved (not understanding back then that was actually fear, because the feared were in that house with vyle.) anyway.
A cycle, a paradox, a survival instinct playing out in real-time.
Now, he stands in it.
Drink. Stamped Tablets. White powder in the air.
Waiting.
Some of the crew had gone up north to procure Stacy.
Others were hitting Kenwood Liquorz for supplies, stocking up for another endless night to turn into endless morning, maybe the weakest in the room suffers an episode,
or is fodder for the wolves that night.
And vyle.?
He was there, protected, answering emails from bloggers, somewhere between being swallowed by the streets and being a beacon for those trying to escape them.