Sent the track and sprinted to a Wynwood bodega like the impulse-control-challenged queen I am—iced coffee, sour candy, and a soon-to-be-forgotten water for the ambiance of fridge hum, busted fan, and someone arguing about cigarettes in the back. Miami sounds cheap when it’s honest, and residency’s got me stupid tired but somehow also riding the wave of the best thing I’ve ever made. Greasy victory lap, don’t mind me.

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