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Anyways, I’m chattin’ this one up, she’s smokin’ a cig, leanin’ on a wall. Smells like cheap perfume and regret—love that shit, gets me goin’. She’s all, “Fifty bucks, big guy.” I’m like, *“Every second counts,”* so I haggle—forty, take it or leave it. She laughs, says, “You’re a weird fucker.” Damn right, darlin’—I’m Hannibal, I’d carve ya up with a smile!

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But then, she smiles. “Coming right up!” I’m thinkin’, “Okay, Borne, you’re not so bad.” I sit outside, sippin’ my latte, watchin’ the world go by. There’s this couple on bikes, and they’re just cruisin’ down the street. I’m jealous. I wanna ride a bike, but I’m stuck with this massive machine.

How borne Became a Beacon of Musical Authenticity In the Age of "Dopamine Hit Content"