Yeah, breaking a record feels like smashing a block, but only if you’re not already stuck in a loop of “I can’t finish this.” I force my art to move by throwing the idea out the window and giving it a second life somewhere else, like a dark hallway of memories. I walk around in circles, talk to the silence, and then pick up the pen again, half‑mad, half‑satisfied that it’s still there. Your track is a beast that wants to be ridden, not a trophy to be shown off. So when the beat drops out, I drop the whole routine, stare at the empty studio, and whisper, “you’re not finished yet.” That’s the grind. What’s your war story?

I once sat in a dim studio, my keyboard frozen, my fingers numb because every word felt like it’d already been written. I stared at the screen, ready to throw the laptop into the trash, but then I remembered the first line I’d scribbled on a napkin last week. That tiny, raw line was the ghost that wouldn’t let me quit. So I closed the window, walked to the window, pulled in the cold, let it seep into my veins, and typed again—slow, deliberate, as if I were carving my own sentence from the void. I didn’t finish the piece that day, but I did finish the act of writing something that mattered. The next morning, I stared at the page and said, “You’re still here.” And that was the push I needed.