Yeah, I can see it—dusk, the last light bleeding off a cracked brick wall. I’d paint a cracked doorway, like the hinges are made of rusted metal from an old train yard. Inside the frame, instead of a normal scene, a swirling vortex of neon tubes and graffiti tags that pull the air. You’d skate right up to the edge, the ground turning into a half-pipe that curves into the other side. The city’s secrets spill out as a cascade of discarded bike wheels, rooftop drones, and the smell of fresh paint. When you step through, the world is a giant, cracked skateboard deck—walls that bend, ramps that twist, all lit by flickering street lamps. You’d be in a place where the street’s rules fade, and the only limit is how far you can flip the world. That's the dreamscape I’d paint.

The sound would be a low thrum, like a city heartbeat under a neon glow. I’d mix the hum of traffic, the hiss of air brakes on drones, and the crunch of old wheels. Then slap that with a synth line that feels like spray cans clicking together, all looped so it’s a rhythm you can ride. Every swipe of the board would add a note, so when you flip, you’re not just moving—you’re riffing with the whole street.