Real Flex

A nighttime stroll under neon lights, where every word is like the click of a belt: bragging coexists with slight fatigue, and threats sound so calm, as if someone were simply counting the change in their pocket. There is ironic recklessness in the voice: money spent on someone's hairstyle alongside the intention to “put one's head on the line,” as if love and danger live in the same wallet.

The beats are heavy, the phrases are sharp - everything is subordinated to movement and effect. Descriptions of cars, watches, and “tough stuff” flash by like notes on a phone after a long night: brief, specific, sometimes even funny in their own severity. At the same time, these lines reveal simple human flesh - the desire to be noticed, counted, and, yes, understood a little cruelly.