Move out or earn it; don’t just live there. Arguing about nothing around 10:14 PM waiting for your clothes to dry. Street lit outside and ya hear from a car window, “an’ you tell Aunt Ke’Lie to get the fuck out the bathroom.” e-Motion Picture I surrounds you in a-bag-of-trick feels, dry and creased but easily smoothed. Moisturizing and “What are y’all doing without moisturizing in this weather?” The streets sound tighter at night, and hollow. The Nativist continues adapting to their surroundings.
e-Motion Picture I is carefully-chosen sounds of the city at night. Any city. All the cities combined. The Nativist figures out the exact rhythm of minimalist funk, futured by club production DJing of life in the urban nocturne. The bits percussed from apartment windows and honed out subway grates is how e-Motion Picture I takes scene out the diorama, creating blocks and blocks of building into an echo-box. Upon the rooftop, The Nativist tightly braids another untold narrative of unpredictable horror.
A vampirical gaze tenses your entire being, held by nothing stronger than vapor. An adventure unfolds in autopilot, e-Motion Picture I the soundtrack to the fourth-meal snack you bite into while the Uber driver complains about the mess. The Nativist ensures five stars and a 20% tip. Pull up to the club in a fit — like all ya fits — to die in. Sound been blasted out, and the speaker volume is smaller than the a single box rippling wider than the file’s waves, as if e-Motion Picture I crackles through 1998 computer aux-insert speakers. Nobody is talking. Everyone is moving.
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