What is it meant to be this fat messed beat? Sounds from a terrible truth buried in haze and static. Afraid to be obvious. This is not meant to be more than a measured irreaction.
It should not be discovered, but felt. Get the resonance. The stretch. The echoes that reverberate like false hopes.
And it stumbles on down middle streets with cut out windows on poverty.
Odds on. Take the next step and onwards.