Seven years ago my dear Blanca died, she had long brown hair and a thicc brazilian accent, her skin was so smooth you could play jazz on it, and she smelled like parsley, the good one indeed. She used to bake me sweets, as sweet as her souls, cinnamon rolls, pork pies and macarons beefed with salmon tenderloins, it was brutal. I never knew much about her, about her family, friends, nothing. We used to shoot the shit with a bunch of carpenters from Oakland and they would call her the Brazilian Pot, because of her voluptous body, they used to call me Ayrton Senna much of it, no talk. My bag was still in her car, a dodged lamborghini miura, fuck if I hated the non-working air conditioning in the summer, living in NYC was a pain in the blast. High buildings, that's what tied us so tightly, we used to go on top of tall skyscrapers and wonder what would happen if we jumped off of them, she was serious about it, found out about it december the 12th. Life goes on, so I started planning out the revolution, tossed away the pans, bought new ones with flames drawing on them, I was burnt out. I started watching the skids on the road more and more carefully, each and every passing day, until I found a 5 dollar bill with something written on it "Leave your mark". I remember screaming so loud and crying so hard, I was broken.
The last song I wrote was about skinny girls, bag it up, it's a whole day. Space politics were never my thing. Nigga.