Trip. Flip. Dip. I just heard rip. Checked my pants, seems legit. Hmmm what could it be. It can’t just be me. I look around, no one surrounds. Now I’m bound to figure out the sound. Jump up. Feet pound the ground. So hard that a mound of dirt shakes. Quakes. Yikes. Feelin’ vibrations. Created by echos of my frustrations. A sound that can’t be found. Now it’s getting loud. Rip. I heard it again. This time I could tell it was around me.

Hearing white noise. Noticed a cat that was well poised. Noise. Noise. Noise. What the heck is that noise. To find it, might I have to destroy? Knock down blocks. Kick rocks. Rip. There it goes. I found it yo. Oh no. Nah. It can’t be. A friend that I never met. He just left. Come back. Not sure if I’m ready to face that fact. Mac come back. I have no excuse to not produce. Why’d you have to go and grab the rope. Too much dope is not most dope. Struggle. Create. Resuscitate. Too late. Your body’s in a grave. Your voice is on replay, with no relay. I’ll be listening for days. R.I.PĀ Malcolm James McCormick, Mac Miller, forever with me.

I was in the middle of this drawing when I got the news my favorite rapper past away. His lyrics always resonated with me. His passing gave me wind to create without giving a f*ck. Cheers my dude, one day I’ll be seeing you.