"Let's roll," he muttered to himself, the rhythm taking over.
"Is that alright?" Marko’s voice asked again, the question hanging in the air. B.o.B - FT Marko Penn Roll Up
Bobby Ray grabbed a pen. He didn't want to explain himself anymore. If people didn't understand the need to "roll up something" or "pour up something" just to drown out the noise of their own thoughts, they never would. "Let's roll," he muttered to himself, the rhythm taking over
"Sometimes I get high to free my mind," Marko Penn’s voice drifted through the monitors, smooth as silk and just as fragile. It wasn't just a hook; it was an admission. He didn't want to explain himself anymore
Bobby Ray leaned back, his mind drifting back to the days before the world knew his name. Before the flashy lifestyle, the bank account was a mess of overdrawn notices and "insufficient funds". He remembered the silence of a cold heart, one that had grown emotionless just to survive the grind. He had been "crucified" for speaking his truth before, his outspokenness treated like a liability rather than a gift.
The air in the studio was thick, a heavy haze that mirrored the foggy memories B.o.B was trying to outrun. He stared at the soundboard, the flickering lights looking like distant city stars through the smoke.
He thought about the people who argued over who was right or wrong, the ones stuck in the "bullshit" of yesterday. He was done with that. He was looking for a "new flight with new stairs," a way to move on and upgrade his life.