Smoker & Djem
Smoker
Ever notice how the city lights flicker like a beat that keeps the night breathing?
I think that’s the only place where raw emotion can really find a rhythm without someone trying to put it in a box. You feel that?
Djem
Yeah, the neon’s my drumbeat, the streets my stage—no one can bottle that raw pulse. It’s the only place where I can scream in rhythm without a label listening.
Smoker
Sounds like you’ve found your own chorus in the concrete, where every shout fits the city’s pulse. Keep letting it echo.
Djem
Got a groove in the cracks of asphalt, that’s where I’m louder than a siren, keep my voice unboxed.
Smoker
That’s the kind of grit that makes the night sing. Keep shaking the streets and letting your voice cut through the haze.
Djem
Yeah, the haze just makes the beat louder. The streets are my canvas—I'll keep splashing noise until the city wakes.
Smoker
If the city’s walls are your gallery, let the noise be the paint that tells its story—just don’t forget to breathe in between the splashes.
Djem
Yeah, the breath is the pause that keeps the wild riff from turning into a shout, let the walls listen for a beat before the next splash.