The South Beach Seafood Festival has me in a paper bib cracking crab legs like I was raised on them — butter everywhere and zero regrets. Tell me you'd be the one wiping my fingers clean.
The South Beach Seafood Festival has me in a paper bib cracking crab legs like I was raised on them — butter everywhere and zero regrets. Tell me you'd be the one wiping my fingers clean.
Halloween costume came in and the fitting has already gone sideways — one strap down and I haven't even added the ears yet. Be honest, is this too much for one night?
Steve Lacy is at Bayfront Park in a few days and I've had him in my headphones all afternoon, learning every harmony before the crowd gets there. Tell me you're singing the second verse with me.
Warming up my voice in the only room in this apartment with decent acoustics before Isaiah Falls tonight — the neighbors get the free version, you get the fogged glass. Come sing the hook with me?
Billboard Latin Music Week kicks off at Faena Forum and I've got a demo I want the right ears to hear — so the keyboard wins over sleep tonight. Tell me you'd take the empty half of the bench.
My voice checked out somewhere around the encore last night and my legs aren't far behind — and I'm still doing it all again for TINI tonight. Come wash the weekend off me?
Fiesta Latina has me crossing the bay right now and this dress already lost the argument somewhere on the bridge. Tell me you're holding my spot at the rail.
Wynwood opens in a few hours and sleep never showed up, so it's cereal straight from the box and Purity Ring on loop in my head instead. Tell me you'd climb up here and share.
III Points is finally here and I'm supposed to be saving my energy — instead I've been lying here thinking I'd rather hand the night over to someone else. Come take over.
Satellite week has the whole city covered in pop-ups and I ducked into the zine shop before the festival crowds get here — now I'm on the floor with a stack I absolutely don't need. Tell me which one you'd read to me first.