Send It Up

This is the album's most genuinely strange offering, and the strangeness is what makes it work. The production is constructed almost entirely from a sample of Beenie Man warped beyond recognition — a reggae-adjacent source material transformed into something that sounds like a ceremonial chant from a religion that doesn't exist yet. The tempo is slow and hypnotic, the bass frequencies pressing down with ritualistic repetition, drums sparse and deliberate. The vocal delivery floats above the instrumental in a detached, almost incantatory mode — not rapping so much as pronouncing, each line landing like a verdict. The lyrical content doubles down on the god-complex themes that thread through the project, but here the grandiosity feels less like ego and more like performance art, self-mythology raised to a point where it circles back to something almost abstract. Culturally it functions as a closer — a final act of assertion before silence. You'd reach for this in very specific circumstances: walking alone somewhere at night, headphones on, wanting the outside world to feel slightly unreal and slightly beneath you. It's not background music. It demands to be the only thing happening.