the bullets move in rhythm... Every one released is like riding a tempo... The Architect lives inside of my mental... the kind of potential I create for each line is suspenseful... enough to give the philosophical meaning of Violence? a pencil...
I leave the streets for good... but I'm still in the rap... The villain is back... look at the life go, as he's killing the track... I'm the filter for what these syllables lack... I grill em' n' flat- en' the foundation they were building, for that? I sit back and watch the pillars collapse... Trust me... I had love for the game, but my comfort's changed... now it's something deranged... lost souls, giving up in exchange... They wallow and bask in all of it, when I'm calling it trash... History in the making for the future, when they follow the past... This is Apollo, at last... beaten the Russian he lost to... in spirit... those who want the drive? They can suck the exhaust fumes from out the back of the whip until the revving causes the axle to shift... tell the Monestary Monk... I am a master at this... And his ass don't exist... I don't look calm... because I've made it be... now they're relating me to the stor...