Violence, stalks the airwaves. Deep in Dublin’s alleys and non possessive trenches. Why does it always scream like that? The hypodermic syringes. All shit and piss and blood and nothing down in the Italian quarter screaming to be heard yet a silent shout and nothing exists within the nothing which exists in the pain which exists and yet exists, somehow, through the void and gets all blue and reddish and blueish. It’s weird. It’s kinda weird the way I ink this and utter it all, utter all guttural and splutter it out. Maybe Tupac taught me. Not him. Biggie. Biggie was my boy. My champion. The Wu-Tang. Deep. Big-L. Queens. Brooklyn. The Bronx. Staten. These voices. That’s the one there, yes, that’s it.