Pink Atlas

Map the coordinates, where the concrete was poured The places we were

made, the places we ignored

A bedroom in the suburbs,

a suite in the rain Every city holds a fracture,

every city holds a vein

We were constructed in the shadows and the light

Forged in the fever,

in the middle of the night

Places we were made,

the geometry of soul Every street corner took a piece,

then gave me back the whole I’m a composite of the exits,

a portrait of the roads The architecture of the history,

the breaking of the codes We were built to endure,

we were built to rewrite The geography of feeling,

in the neon light London’s gray horizon,

the cold of the brick

The Stockholm witching hour,

where the heartbeat is thick

Quebec’s quiet hum, where the foundation sets Every memory a marker,

for the debts and the bets

A blank page, a swan dive,

the place where I started To the place where the path,

and the future, parted

It’s not just a location.

It’s a formation.

I am the city.

I am the map.

I am the made.

Places we were made...

and places I’m making.

100% Tiguidou.

The blueprint is infinite.