she said you aint change one bit
dont get your coffee cold
caprice bubble
radar watching us drive on the road
filament flicker
check cashing next to cottage grove
if we didn't hit that audible
it would've been
the audy home
make and model frequency tethered
like tandem use
storied history of getaways
in that mechanical
don't want to end up in the can
then shake it like the vandals do
cordless device
it sound like
techno animal
stars are kings
nichols park
in the armory
visible high grass
soundtracked
anthology
told shorty
plus sign
don't get up in the doctoring
number on document
no legalize
that's auctioning
serial digit
type in
for the bartering
live on terraform
they gone' call that loitering
walk swiftly
through neon
charter line
innocuous
the cost of clocks
buying time
sold
at the cost of friends
panoramic objects
those are not ceilings
they gone' take care of you
no
not really
at this rate
they gone' leave the city reeling
from the nearfuture
with them screens up on them buildings
and we are where we from x4
you've been warned
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The past rushes in like a gust through an open window, the kind that shifts everything on the table just enough to remind you it was always there.
Memories surface, fragments of a life built on movement, on perseverance, on the constant push toward something greater.
His neighborhood, steeped in history, the echoes of what once was still lingering in the brick and pavement. The fight required to stay in an industry that doesn't just test you—it dares you to keep going. The allure of 1977 punk rock, not just the music but the entire aesthetic—the rawness, the recklessness, the way it redefined rebellion in sound, in clothing, in women who carried their own voltage.
And then, the impossible made real—the dreams once scribbled in notebooks, tossed around in late-night conversations, now tangible, standing upright in the world like they had always belonged there.
His memories flush in, vivid and untamed—skating through Nichols Park, weaving between paths on his way to skate spots, the rhythm of wheels on pavement blending with the city's pulse. The footwork parties at Washington Park Fieldhouse and the armory, the bass heavy enough to rattle your sternum, feet moving in impossible tempos, bodies locked in the ritual of rhythm.
Friends beside him, carrying around machinery they called "techno animal," heavy in their hands, a contradiction of steel and affection, as if naming it softened its purpose.
The car moves past 63rd and King Drive, and the weight of place settles on him.
Just a block away—where Norma was born and raised, in the same buildings where Losing Isaiah was filmed.
A passage, a corridor, a thoroughfare—from Hyde Park to Chatham, from childhood to something else entirely.
And now—its present weight.
Chief Keef's Parkway Gardens sits just a block over, a new landmark of a city that has been rewriting its own mythology in real time.
His thoughts roll like dice thrown onto a table—certain paths taken through CTA tunnels and hallways, where one wrong turn could've led to the Audy Home.
Audy Home—the Juvenile Temporary Detention Center, the place where kids caught in the system, in the streets, in the wrong place at the wrong time, ended up.
It wasn't just a building. It was a threshold.
For some, it was a place you went and came back from. For others, it was the first step into something you never really left.
As kids, they were almost hunted.
His skate fashion—that's what saved him. The way it blurred his alignment, confused the categories, let him slip through the cracks where definitions were drawn in blood.
His mind shifts again—women, the ones who crossed his path, the ones who never fully left.
Some from war-torn countries, where survival meant something different entirely. Some from war-torn homes, where the battles were quiet but just as brutal.
And then, the weight of words.
How gossip shifts, morphs, becomes something sharper—how "exposing" others happens in ways you never intended, how the aftermath is sometimes worse than the truth.
And wasn't he the cause, at times? Moving through his feral state, a hurricane without direction, a body acting before a mind could catch up?
After all, this is Chicago.
The city with the screens on the buildings.
And then—another object.
At the intersection, it waits—this one like liquid metal, shifting, fluid, moving with the wind but never against it, as if it knows the rhythm of the city itself.
He isn't alone.
DJ Earn Money is beside him.
Earn—the architect of energy, a DJ who understood the body's response to sound the way some people understand scripture. Someone who was there, always there—shoulder to shoulder in the Flosstradamus scene, part of the same moment, the same movement.
Earn was one of the few who knew.
Knew the weight, knew the spiral, knew what it meant when vyle. started slipping between the cracks.
But Earn was there, along with the rest of the people closest to him.
There were nights when vyle. wasn't sure where he was going, but they were. They stayed. They watched. They waited.
Not everyone does that.
Not everyone stays when the ground starts shifting.
But they did.
The city keeps moving, the object keeps shifting, the memories keep circling back.
Forward is the only way through.