My people are you with me, where you at?

The blog is back, I am not. No homeward bound for me. I've got my titantium infared laptop powered by the sun itself. It's featherweight, like my flow. It's skinny like Fitz is fat. OK, so it's not really mine. That's what those Brooklyn kids get for sporting the retro rides--an Oldsmobile with pop-up locks, easy-peasy japanesy. There was Krispy Kum on the back seat in the shape of an exclamation--fuckin impatient trust-fund baby. So watcha got for me? I’m in the bar, with my head on the bar. I feel a cold one comin on, sittin here watchin the door swing open and shut. My high hasn’t kicked in yet. The licorice taste of the pill is on the back of my tongue. My legs still feel like mine.