[INTRO — DARK SAMPLE / MINIMAL] Sup. [VERSE 1A — CONTROLLED, DENSE RAP] Black nights painted, the sky’s streets seem deserted in arrangement. Disciplined dissatisfaction with disassociated containment, peripheral vision scaling entertainment, pawned players move, planning moves, then moved confused, associated loose, my eyes ahead inside of choose, no thought of what to do, no proving because I prove, this that “Thoughtaholic” use, just proof... [FAKE TRANSITION — BEAT PULLS BACK] [Listener expects hook — verse continues] [VERSE 1B — SLOWER, SPACIOUS POCKET] No window tint, to be seen. Behind the wheel, soft grip, turning corners with a lean. What’s two cups with the lines, eight more, looking for sixteen. No need to slang dope, I’m already mean... [INSTRUMENTAL BREATH] [VERSE 2 — OBSERVATIONAL / CINEMATIC] A windshield of promised perfection. Broken promises picked up, piece by piece. Too much to hold, the road resembles eyes of a man selling told, but gives nothing to lose in a mold, glued together at the fold. Empty envelopes full of words, spilt across the concrete alleys, shadowed with light, drive by like another missed story believed in a might... [PAUSE] Maybe... Excuses to excuse my cold heart pointed at you without proof... not needed to prove... [INSTRUMENTAL SPACE] [VERSE 3A — CONTROLLED UNRAVELING] Hmph... Pointed at you without proof, not needed to prove... Feeling like I’m all alone in a dark cold room. Moisture’s so thick there’s breath, but only a few. Every time the bass hits, a horn screams, a light flashes... I’m pacing back and forth, arguing line for line, bar fights in my mind’s scars, time to time, no time, wasted finds regret lying face down, watching hands wave around repeating, “I’m fine...” Worry greets relaxed staring... [BEAT VACUUM] [VERSE 3B — SUDDEN RAP SWITCH / TALK YOUR SHIT] No Saint, but a lunatic, Midwest swing, country grammar... let me talk my shit. Stripper poles with slick lips sliding slow like low rider on a boulevard strip, hittin’ switches, bouncing britches, bitches on bitches... on top of more bitches??? I don’t need to prove shit, since the sense I spit reroute an ignorant thought back to where a man once lost God... [ABRUPT RESET] Back to realities basis... stolen soul seem familiar but appears faceless. “Hold on... review mirror needs adjusted.” Adjacent placement, old scroll states with a written pen statement: you are the replacement. [BUILD] Storms wail... [CRASH] [EVERYTHING CUTS] Proof... [PAUSE] has awaken. [INSTRUMENTAL OUTRO — NO MORE VOCALS]
