I sip the Dom P, watchin Gandhi til I'm charged . . .

Then writin in my book of rhymes, all the words pass the margin . . . .

I fucking love this remix. I remember having this on a tape at night, in my college roommate's car, as we drove through a toll booth, over a bridge, and into New York City in the summer of 1995. We were 20, and the air was electric with possibility.

The internet will never let us forget anything.