Demand me.
Grab me by the dick & drag me to the bed.
Let me pour the oil all over.
Everywhere, everywhere.
In a seaside town somewhere in Mexico reading Baudelaire, w/ you.
& these machines. O how they command us to perform.
They, they.
They who work w/ us. They.
Not that, not that.
Just a mix by liltantrum that makes you want to wield a sword & cut heads.
& maybe fuck.
(“Picuda” by liltantrum. Wow. What a song.)
(I’m Puerto Rican. Any kind of reggaetón-esque song, like “Picuda”, hits the pleasure centers, you know.)
Because emotions, like oil paint on an oil painter’s canvas, get all mixed up and diluted and fermented until, suddenly, during the fermentation process, it all explodes.
The music illustrates that process. It depicts it.
It tells the tale. Narrates.
It forms the legend.
Creates the myth.
Hits the heart symbol on Instagram.
Etc., etc.
More about: liltantrum
