5 a.m. (ET)
There's a thin line between smart and crazy / Sitting on the fence is a balancing act / I never learned how to juggle / They say practice makes perfect, so I don't practice...
DON'T listen to my music. It will make you ugly...
Live through me -- and you will love the rain...
#whymyspacesucks / #hiphopconfession : The ratio of rappers, producers, DJs and marketers to fans is like 10 to 1...
I wish I was fluent in more languages / So hard to communicate across oceans / F*ck, so hard to communicate in half a California if you don't speak Mexican Spanish / Sometimes, so hard to understand why THAT producer won't just send that mix / THAT producer lives where "uploading" isn't of the vernacular / Pain is relative, but certain pains transcend the individual / We are all spoiled brats / And it's not all Ralph Lauren's fault / It's also Kanye's fault, and Chris Brown's fault, and Bobby Brown's fault, and 99% of the Bengals' fault...
Do you dream in black&white or color? Do you KNOW your dreams? / I hate stupid questions / My Metal Music, I'm lucid, stupid...
And the toilet grew vines, and then the vines cracked through the porcelain, like cement, and the toilet shattered before me, as I finished and zipped up, tagged my name in pink paint pen on the stall's white wood skin, pushed the swing door, went face-to-face with myself in the mirror, saw ocean, and trounced out of there as if I was looking forward to the cardboard cutouts of people experimenting in debauchery down the hall...
It happened before. He stole my handle of Captain Morgan's in a New York City hotel room after MY senior prom. He had that spark, that different kinda spark, that unnerving spark that speaks of evil. Psychosis, in the way publicly paid social workers mean it when they rush out of the "safe place" and tell the director in the big, maple-wooded corner office that they can't "take" that patient...
Debauchery is not Las Vegas, it's Atlantic City. Vegas is Hollywood. AC is Newark. Throw some quarter in the slot, slam down the lever and walk the abandoned boardwalk at night. Find a strip joint befitting only a ramshackle lean-to constructed in a drunken haze by a gang of gypsies. And eat your heart out at the hotel restaurant buffet. Someone, somewhere, is playing roulette, and winning. But what's the fun in glory?...
When I go in, I go in. A-hat tilted low, straight brim; crisp jeans; white T, sweatshirt, bomber jacket; matching Dunks / Crowded in crowds / Fewer cameras, more razorblades...
Then I go dancing, where the rarest of kicks are not welcome if they even slightly resemble a sneaker, and I "dance." And they giggle, but they love it...
Other than music and scotch, its movies, haze, girls, art, food, catchin flix, stringin words together, revolution, being a BASTERD, and, of course, getting out-bowled by Walter or a sexy Korean emigrant / I'm good at aiming for duck pins / And I can catch flies just by making a fist, unless She was watching...
7 a.m. (ET)
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