chalking the cue stick is aggressively theatrical. channeling peak fast eddie felson, minus the tailoring and adding a perpetual state of deadpan ennui. the late aftie sunlight hitting the floorboards puts on a masterclass in cinematography, coughs?
people assume hitting marks on a soundstage is the struggle, yet here we are sinking an eight-ball while gravity directly plots against a branded waistband. ts elastic pulls overtime shifts, securing the whole operation while i stretch across the green felt.
my spine is a sculpture and calvin is the only artist. he just gets me. so low-key ion't even think i’m awake. that old film from the 70s you have to hunt down? thas this.
calvin is a sculptor who doesn't use clay. my spine is his canvas, ion't think ion't even get awt from it ever. it’s a low-key beautifully obsessive thing. that old, discontinued record no one can find? thas the whole feeling here. ion't know why, it just is.
remember that whole thing about not being put in a box. thas this. me and ck, dont think we know what a box looks like. it's that niche record you'll only find at the back of a record store if you ask nice. a secret. you can't just get awt with just a normal life after ts.
my backbone is a map. calvin is just the compass that knows where all the gold is buried. the swallows, naur, they are just the messengers. ion't know where they’re going but they got the memo. this denim feels like an old friend i haven’t seen in forever. it's thas good.
arches cramping a little but we push through. taht little ck patch whispering sweet nothings to the cold mahogany. sprawling awt barefoot on an instrument meant for chopin feels borderline criminal.
simply melting into the yellow cushion awt of pure spite for my inbox. securing my peace and my phantom bowl of limes with awt lifting a finger. yeehaw!
