LYRICS INFO ABOUT
Now Loading
×

vintage os like a ipod
in milano just marble and pylon

alphanumeric message is carried
on ad hoc network thats connected to nikon

sponsor on spectrum
her text intercepted
said i put you on the map like a icon

just don buck 50 hat brim
this is not izod

authenticated like we just left primark

edward o'hare rendezvous
interlude we see you're confused by our sidebars

last time she was more shook than a krylon
used to scoop her at her mans that is kiboshed

with dramatization etched right on the sleeve
bread question segmented like what you need

img wilhelm big ford and elite
interior earthtones autumn retrieved

right foot on terra
she said boy you error
caught syntax you know i'm not green

that you do not have concede
its obvious that you just want me to leave

on train of thought firmly entrenched
and you stowaway under seats

give em something that the scanner can read
time crisis controller not ultra light beam

speedometer talkative must not exceed
sms messages she got receipts

sony ericsson and i'm in the car over east
think errybody heard i got it on speaker

i know that you finna leave him
in agreement he's egregious
you ain't gotta change your prefix
she said how i know that you mean it

and she been mistreated
they take her words and misread them
like they decent

three line connection
like how crypto wallets respond to addresses

when viaduct wall peeling
was overdecrypted

at battletech station
in north pier extension

humanoid pacification
autonomous directives

hankook runflat
only exception

in matte black capsule
drove through the bedlam

we in gstaad
with ya broad doing styleups

amazonian indigenous woman
repeatedly declining your trial offers

multi line spaced paragraph
laugh completion
deletion couldn't even absolve him

colorism loaferism
she said he blew it
like charlotte hornets starter

not distracted over clothing
abstractions over coding

wanda vista tower terrace
staggered over gullwing

she said he took offense to liberation
do that mean her ex benefit
from her own oppression

she went from green dot
creased over reeboks
to dinner fittings and a egot

her body took a screenshot
ancestral percept
system streaming fourtet

her father work for opec
miu miu glasses corset

×

Use Cursor/Finger to view
Use Cursor/Finger to turn
Use Left click/Two fingers to zoom
Interact with cursor/finger

×

The Code of Chicago, The Currency of Presence

There's a particular irritation—a deep, immediate disdain—that rises when vyle. hears South Side Chicago accents coming from the mouths of people who have never lived it.

The slang, the clipped vowels, the rhythm of speech—these aren't just sounds; they're timestamps, artifacts, remnants of a journey.

They were forged in the Great Migration, in the way Mississippi met Bronzeville, in the way Delta blues bent into house music, in the way generations layered their voices until Chicago had its own dialect—undeniable, unmistakable.

And yet, outsiders wear it like a fashion trend, like a song lyric, like a tweet gone viral.

They don't understand how Chicagoans speak in encryption.

A phrase can mean ten things. A sentence can be a warning, a joke, a test.

If you weren't raised in it, you don't hear the double meaning, the unsaid parts.

And you're not supposed to.

An Ocean Away, But Still Tuned In

Europe. A vintage iOS skin on his MP3 player.

WHPK radio playing in his headphones.

The heartbeat of Chicago, pulsing through a foreign landscape.

The music, the static of the broadcast, the station IDs—it's a direct line to home, a tether across time zones.

Even continents away, he never has to search for the frequency.

The Economics of Affection

There are rules to all of this.

Sugar babies still have to give sugar.

Women leave men who don't pay them the mind they deserve.

Who took their presence for granted. Who only noticed them once they were gone.

vyle. understands.

Understands the performative regret, the too-late apologies, the paragraphs sent at 2 AM that do nothing but confirm what she already knew.

Maybe someone heard the conversation—maybe it was on speakerphone, Sony Ericsson, WHPK humming low in the background.

Or maybe it was just societal unrest, vibrating through the air, through the messages sent and ignored, through the men still unaware of their own chauvinism.

Armor, Both Literal and Unspoken

In certain places, run-flat tires aren't luxury, they're necessity.

A precaution against streets designed to slow you down, stop you, trap you.

Resilience is sometimes engineered. Other times, it's just instinct.

And then there are the men—the ones who never saw him before, the ones who never saw her before.

Style-ups for the women who once ignored you.

Long messages for the women who have moved on.

But she isn't moved by any of it.

She enjoys conversations that engulf, conversations that demand thought, ones that stretch into the night over candlelight and cityscapes.

On the terrace of St. Regis Chicago, formerly Wanda Vista Tower.

Below, a gullwing car rests in the driveway.

Everything precise. Everything chosen.

And yet, so many men don't even recognize themselves fetishizing, mistaking ownership for intimacy, attraction for entitlement.

Some people only become fully realized after leaving their past behind—after surviving something.
Leaving an abusive ex.
Walking away from a cycle of harm.
Escaping their own patterns.

Gas, Glasses, and the Weight of Currency

The dinner parties in these circles—they hum with the sound of Four Tet, with conversations that drift between art and power, with names that shape the world in ways most people will never fully see.

Heiresses to OPEC councils?

Or maybe she's just gas.

Maybe she's just energy in its rawest form.

Maybe that's why she wears Miu Miu glasses and vintage corsets—not because they were given to her, but because they were inevitable.

Because some inherit wealth.

And others?

They inherit the game itself.