The man in his velour suit jacket. Black silk lapels. Long plaid navy suit pants. Shoes with heels that click. A conversation that happened, but you’re only told about. Or just over hear. Nothing is directly said to you anymore. Everything is just implied. Like the man. With the clicking heels. Strutting like he on the top floor: DJ HOTEL. Dripping from the night sky. Enhancements of operations like a walkie-talkie in the ear. Fuck hackable BluTooth WiFi data coverage plans. Bass just enough to ripple your core. Chill in the green room on the DJ Poppy LFO City haze blast. Not too nasty. Healthy rhyme. The sound alive: