Blunts and basketball, an irreplaceable component of temporary teenaged happiness — or arguably happiness at any age. This is a brief psychedelic window from last year’s Tin Wooki. The samurai at 17 wondering if he’ll be like the Gods, the one spitting ash and thunder at the same time.
A best try, a best attempt to scramble up the cliff with the invincible confidence you can only have during the spring. Watson waking up and staring in the mirror and seeing the faces and schizophrenic hair styles of dead icons. If you aren’t like this in the morning, don’t bother.
Psymun on the beat. The declaration of family among friends. The smile is big, the villainy is veiled, the depression is the undercurrent. Despite its darkness, it’s thing that stops him from compromise. Time to exhale and spark another. Pablo would.
