listening to a cormega album from 2001 called the realness.



looking folded up and pensive like he always does.
but on the back cover he stands under project doorway in baggy grey hoodie, clean complex braids.

i'm frustrated by not being able to describe why i'm feeling mega right now without just describing why i love new york or whatever rappers from the last ten and a half years. he's got this roughness but like he's just flowing like a motherfucker, so warm and automatic. he's got this whole nyc drug game mythology he can reach into and we know he was really in the streets and we want to know exactly who he fucked with and who he might be fucking with now and what he did then and what he might be doing now. whatever, right because that could be anyone.
so, i don't know. he's cold as fuck and perfect in every way, completely pure and real.
almost every verse is this perfect picture, this pure realness, those read-along verses to search up on ohhla and he raps at the exact same speed you read in your head.

i gave you power conceptual shit.
references you only get because of ghetto qua'ran.
staring at the heavens, secluded in a tinted jeep.

beats, he doesn't get on them unless they're perfect. drums gritty, granular, real drums but the sad slow piano, creaking violins crisp and clear like iceberg lettuce and reading glasses. if nas could pick beats like mega does, fill in the blank.

seen some of the biggest drug dealers blow fortunes in bathrooms
niggas be sniffing like vacuums
reminisce to 88 the year crack ruled
i had nike delta forces with them clear capsules
five for forty
crackheads like, i only buy from cory