It’s an odd feeling being better at this than you are, when all meaning seems set to be left to nuance, and life is set to music the jukebox in my brain produces, shooting toxic tunes up your veins sicker than a dope addict’s blood transfusion, when it’s mixed into solution and infused in munitions using my tools to position platoons of magicians shooting the magic with which I imbued them. Oooo. Win. Who him? No her. No sir, no sir, lose you’re head on her rollercoaster, losing life in you own words losers like loose women for long terms, I shoot lasers and lob germs like a conquistador conquering, dropping knowledge when talking sense like an inquisitor walking in submitting subjects for questioning prosecuting his inquisition. Playing positions that I designed, is this a sign of the times, getting readers for being to readers at least not utterly asinine like they want to sit there and read about pretend to be writers idle lives like it’s something to idolize getting paid to write what dies instead of weaving words that survive and even thrive with the passage of time. I’m so sublime when I get going possibly the strongest rhyme architect owing her talent to reading ahead forgoing paying attention for breadth knowing. I’m going hard on the set slowing things way down like a vet performing as hip hop heads break they necks throwing they domes back and forth to my set combing over my words for the best blowing of foes off the set of the map loading to summarize how I’m dope homie.