He had kept the bulk of his music library, which covered every genre from obscure Sub-Saharan drum tracks recorded on cell-phones to honey-tongued R&B to Norwegian black metal, in his parents' basement. It was the only place, he had argued, that could support the weight of it all.
Is it really warranted, for you to bring a gun to New York,
city of high achievement? Thoughtless we both stood,
me, trying to talk you down from taking an overdose
of cerulean powder, you, intent on ingesting a headlamp
so you could witness the inner beatings of your gut.