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vyle. pulls out of the Regents Park garage, the low rumble of the Toyota Camry swallowed by the cavernous underground, the air thick with oil, damp concrete, and the weight of everything left unsaid.
The city above is moving at its own pace, unbothered, indifferent, but down here, time folds in on itself, collapses inward, loops like a cassette tape being eaten by the deck.
And then, as he inches forward, past the flickering fluorescent tubes lining the walls, he sees it—the portal.
It hovers in the middle of the exit ramp, an impossible thing, a vortex of soft violet and shifting darkness, pulling at the edges of his vision like a waking dream.
He blinks, but it's still there.
It's always been there.
It doesn't speak, but it doesn't have to.
It pulses with something deeper, something that knows.
And in that moment, as the car idles before the threshold of daylight, the memories rush forward, pulled from him as if the portal itself is feeding on them.
Norma.
His mother.
His anchor.
The woman who saw past the static of the world and placed her faith in her son's sound.
The woman who spent her last on CD-R duplication, watching as he carefully burned copies, hand-labeling mixtapes that might reach ten people, might reach a thousand.
The woman who never asked why, only asked what he needed.
Who booked flights, sacrificed sleep, gave him the freedom to move between cities, to believe in a world he hadn't yet touched.
And the house—the space she made sacred, opening the door to strangers she didn't know but trusted because her son did.
NYC.
Paris.
Cambridge.
Kids from different corners of the internet, voices crackling over AOL Instant Messenger, now flesh-and-blood in her living room.
Letting them stay.
Letting them record.
Letting them smoke—because better in here than out there, where the city didn't care if they disappeared.
She never fully understood what they were making, but she didn't have to.
She knew it was real.
She knew it was his.
The portal pulses again.
Beckoning.
A reminder.
The gate lifts.
The car rolls forward.
The sun spills onto the windshield, washing out the vision for a moment, and when his eyes adjust—the portal is gone.
Only the road remains, and the city stretches ahead, waiting for him to move.
chini said the gods' returned
imagery barrage returned
you can visualize visage returned
you got your fake smile back
the facade returned
she paid for her unit
the mirage returned
and she aint really care that its extra
she said demenor on standard
said her carry is extra
retracted tape redacted
thats varying measures
parameter mapping
for the synthesis
before we envisioned this
on the side of the building
tape listeners
tape trading minimix
first verse on a minidisc
you still in the land fam
jettison from the pistoliers
cityscape aimless
blank vacant mission there
nah i dont believe that
cause its still some kids in there
before I walked out the exhibition
diorama underrated
real circular
breath unabated
words over head
what's that
an understatement
venue ID retrieved
like you cant be under aging
but you gotta leave
you cant be under raging
she said I aint got the time
but you the one that waited
search term gratify
you aint gotta be impatient
open source network
revived for surveillance
see the municpals
you know im vailing
if she can't be trusted
she is not inducted
orator impeded
that's what that encompassed
exchange rate frequency
thats just repercussions
bandwidth proxy proximity
when we out of country
articulated imagery fragment
you could've sound off
halfway flipped on me
like round off