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About Phoenix

Ain’t just bout the act, nah, it’s the hustle. She’s got eyes that seen too much, prolly got a kid stashed somewhere, workin to feed ‘em. Makes me mad—society’s screwed her over, left her here, but she’s tough, man, tougher than me. I ask, “What’s your deal?” She laughs, says, “Cash, baby, cash.” Fair enough. We chat, I fumble my words, 16 typos in my brain—nervs, ya know? “Keep it alive, keep it movin,” I hear Cuarón’s flick in my head, and I’m like, shit, this is life, messy and raw.

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I zhoos through winding lanes that often make me misspeak words – sorry, lemme count; uhh, err, there are so many typos and rushed thoughts: like, fustrated, exhilarated, then calm. I might type it wrong but hey, that's art! I spilled my heart, man – err, litany of words, because sometimes my vibe is off, sometimes it’s right. I love every chaotic moment, even if my grammar ain't perfect, right? Honsestly, every day it's like “No capes!” in style and mischief.

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