I just receive a password-protected kiss, (image: a mixture of ice cream flavors). I unzipped it and stepped in. To a lyrical cipher, c. 2008, inside some compact, connected subterranean space (beneath of course, a compact, connected surface--don't let the pseudonym fool you--we'll get into homeomorphisms later). The DJ mixed together various audio sources, like a cut-and-paste kingpin with an aluminum soul.

Nerds and thugs, all the kids had skills. Not just rhymes but also flows had evolved. Some white rawkus records backpacker stereotype kid actually spit a verse where the tones of each word formed a convergent series with alternating signs and middle C as zero. This cute Asian girl with silver hair and a strobe-light belly button ring actually dropped synesthetic hypertext into her rhymes so that when they hit your eyes, each word was linked to three or four more. I am auditioning actors to play these roles...you know you want to, give me a call...(Oh, and little fx-processor-insects wandered the airwaves, contributing their own unique visions to the aether...)

I just had to tell you this. My verses these days get mixed up with digraphs and dirty phone conversations, so when I stepped to the microphone, pupils dilating and refracting like an algorithm, xerox-monochrome butterflies swimming in my lungs, and began to let the old songs and stories out, the computers in the audience began to bob their heads, and the mutants sat rapt, tied up in each string. I could feel the kick-snare drum group shuddering in pleasure with every beat. I knew, at that moment, that my mind was real. Because I could not stop thinking.
Of you.