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The moment is so awkward. I ain't know who should talk first. I don't know what to tell you. I don't know what I call it, except clear. Resolute. You. The image is so rich with irony. Clones in front of their audiences yellin' stop me if you heard this one. The quintessential hipster. At least he's a good listener. Pardon the pun, it wasn't intended. So cool in their TOMS shoes. So cool. He raises his hands as to halfway clap, as to halfway approve. If only you stuck to rap. If only you stuck to poetry. If only you had an only. You're the whitest son of a Black Panther I know. It's hip-hop but not what you think. You think I think I'm Mexican. The image is blurry, ain't it? Y'all remain clueless. I battle my alarm and wage war with my to-do list. The egregious amount of hands I got on the little bit of time I've got that ain't even mine in the first place. Don't include me in sacred and secular debates. It's old and I don't care what you call yourself. My Google Map has never changed. Same red pin I'm aimed at. That's a low-res issue, like I don't know what to tell you. It's a goulash, hand-picked mosaic. All are key ingredients, 139 type. The cat that got my tongue has been holdin' on for dear life for so long. No Grammys or Stellars, just bars that come from under the cellar and soar higher than cellular. Let's network. I can't tell you my net worth. I've honestly got no clue. My Journey told me ends were never fuel for choosing the type of tool we usin'. That would be so low resolution.