FLUORESCENT HUM

[Verse 1]
The mop bucket water's gone still by the milk crates, it's opaque.
4:17 AM, and the whole damn city holds its breath, waits.
Smell of cold cardboard and Pine-Sol, a chemical grace.
The ballast buzzes a hymn for the rats in the crawl space.
He sits on a pail, face lit by the phone's cold plate,
Headphones leak a ghost of a snare, he's tracing his fate.
The fabric of Flatbush is fraying, I've watched it for ages,
But he's weaving a new myth right here on these blank pages.

[Verse 2]
I watch him mouth a line in Baoulé, then scratch it right out,
Switches the cadence to Canarsie, no space for no doubt.
That's the mask for the mask, the code he keeps under the tongue,
The return on investment for songs that ain't yet been sung.
I hold the echo of his father, a whisper so clear,
"'C'est pas un métier, ça.' That ghost is always in here."
Then the pencil goes still, his whole posture shifts in the chill,
The air gets electric, the ordinary's suddenly real.

[Chorus]
Four walls heard the first draft, it's a genesis.
Cold concrete felt the verse crack the premises.
Un-stitch the silence, re-sew the past.
This the new pattern, the weave built to last.

[Outro]
Four walls heard the first draft.
Cold concrete felt the earth craft.
The door clicks shut. The hum remains.