"Mais merde, le temps passe et toi tu restes plantée là
Dans ma tête, dans mes veines, dans mes images cérébrales
Mon vide atteint des sommet
La nuit je n'ai plus sommeil"
--"Sur Ton Corps" by Tsew the Kid
The August sun sets, dipping into the pink bath beyond the Los Angeles skyline. These French rap songs loop on repeat like a Gregorian chant, syllables tumbling like hailstones upon the smoky contoured edges of a melting baritone. Folktales warn of the transformations heralded by nightfall---men who howl at the full moon, monstrous bridegrooms who shed their animal skins upon the wedding night. Dangerous thoughts come in this hour. I become a saturnid, a Luna moth spreading these great wings in search of the spark of heat ignited by low voices, rumbling murmurs, reverberations that radiate down the spinal column like an arrow to the cradle.
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