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“The power of words, don’t take it for granted
When you hear a man ranting
Don’t just read the lips, be more sublime than this
Put everything in context.”

The Language of Violence, Disposable Heroes of Hiphoprisy

I was on the bus last night, on my way home from errand-running. There was a guy on the bus, black man, in his late thirties or early forties if I had to guess. He was one of those characters, talking to himself, interrupting his monologues to shout out responses to passengers on their cellphones.

He had a beautiful voice, an orator’s voice – every word was clearly pronounced, and while he wasn’t speaking loudly at first, his voice carried. The type of voice that you could listen to for hours, the kind of voice that should be on the raido for the security and confidence it exudes. He was in a battered outfit, but he was holding onto a fresh-out-of-the-store dress shirt, a striped tie, and one black and pink wellington.

As he was leaving the bus, he embarked on a rant, his voice swelling like a preacher’s. What killed me though, was as he was leaving the bus, he asked people to hit him up on a gmail address.

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