Nobody listens to music anymore. It’s heard, but mostly worn. Music is valued as armor, really. Music protects what we mentally cherish. So when listeners slide into Chinese Slippers, it’s like +250 to defense.
No socks is a must when adorning House Party Slippers. Fuck, if it’s below zero, you already frosty, kit. An’ when did you start giving a damn about everything, because it’s all The Matrix Illuminati anyway. Play it all loud. Everything until bursting is non-visual.
Somebody answer the phone. It’s $9.98 plus tax AND shipping, but it’s worth the price. Woven with a hearkening so thick it rivals Kevlar. Tread like NIKE just shut down all its illegalities. Ownership and branding.
Samples like House Party Slippers is actually a mixtape u found from ‘93 in the back of Robbie’s car. Making out with loose-limps whistling into each other. Familiarity that’s too Top 40 to deny, but Billboard ain’t a way to discover.
When everything is curious at night, Chinese Slippers fleeks maximum effectiveness. Emotions like reality television without all the faux-fluff and pantomime. Then there’s some show with a bill an’ a productionist I dig. An’ I got that tape already. An’ Tekken Tag Team Tournament Two. An’ nudity. With a side of House Party Slippers. Couch.
But bootlegged. Hemmed into plastic like this real. Pretending like you know what I’m saying. Writing one’s self. Providing the empty as whole. Who shall say I am not/ The happy genius of my household?
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