Mufasa

The hollow beats pound like rusty pipes in the stairwell, as if someone were banging on them with their fist, demanding attention. It smells like basements, cheap tobacco, and the eternal competition of ‘who's cooler.’ In one pocket are new trainers, in the other are old scars. Fashions change, but the principles remain the same: if they kick you out the door, you'll come back through the window. It seems noisy and dirty, but in reality, it's a hymn to resilience and stubbornness, where every verse sounds like ‘I live, no matter what.’