The kinda grammar u used

Was not unlike the way u listened to yr music

Rock n’ roll was on records and towering speakers.

Hip-hop was on tape. In huge fucking boomboxes.

On the corner under the blue streetlight

Now you’ve got the illusion of a private language

With ear buds in deep and hoody pulled low.

Music for Playstation.

For pimped rides

For oozing out of the pore-size speaker holes in the flesh-like club walls in New York and Los Angeles and London.

For surround sound thundering out of a gigantic flat screen TV, playing the theme song of our hero who is exactly like the plastic action figures of the other heros that he was modelled after--compelled by forces and script writers unknown to travel here and there in his car, hurtling along interstates that slice through shadowy American landscapes like light sabers through thick jedi cloak, only to find himself, “this is not my beautiful life” Talking Heads-style, living in a trailer or standing in front of a classroom, or ruminating in a highly urbanized setting with other, similarly blank feeling new millennium denizens—in short, doing something he never thought he’d be doing in a place he never thought he’d be.

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