I so rarely write in meters anymore, but don't get it twisted--that's how my writing originally took form. From metrics that almost forced a certain syncopation to full-length narratives that unleashed a slightly more technical, intricate rhythm.

It's only missing that guy on the couch sleeping thru DJs spinning DnB behind a few thousand watts and the ubiquitous extravaganja--a stench that pervaded all hours of the morn, afternu, and eve.

The Air BnB lady trying to tidy up and sheepishly asking why there's a girl handcuffed to the bed post wearing a zipped-up gimp mask. "She seems to be having trouble breathing, sir" She's fine. We're paid up til the 21st, ma'am. "It's the 26th, sir." Oh.. well just charge my card til the 30th.

They say the clothes make the person. Well, yours were made by yourself, so you both coalesce and embody that accurate cliche of garment enchantment you're adorning, but the outfit is in no way wearing you. I think you get the gist of that, if not more than the gist, due to my knowledge of you.

Oooh, yeah. Once that bass dropped and the full range of the track could be ascertained, I was hooked—like Portishead meets Rasputina, with a bit of Sona Eact thrown in for good measure. A most excellent find, my sister!