The “Do Not Enter” tag isn’t a recommendation, it’s a warning. Chester Watson returns with the melancholy slink, bowing his head sullenly in the shadows. The hardest 17 year old rapper seething over paisley dust loops ready to collapse with the rest of the abandoned house. They don’t.

This is another fragment from the darkness — metaphorical and literal as Watson roams the bando offering cryptic thoughts and slang voodoo. The aimless rants are effective because when you’re a teenager the dissent isn’t laser-targeted. You shoot to strafe every object in range. Or to borrow the parlance: he gives a fuck what you’re partaking it. The lungs match the iris, dark and doomed. Bonus points for the sitting on top of the rim shot and the poncho wrap. Nu Age isn’t a claim, it’s been confirmed. You’re paying attention, but everyone else isn’t, so savor the angry scrawls and esoteric scrolls. The realest moments occur quietly.

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