Malcomb Rawls

Kandythekidd

The nights always felt longer when Kandythekidd locked himself in that room. Four walls, one dim lamp, and the quiet hum of a fan that sometimes rattled like it was tired too. The chair was old, the cushion half-gone, and the mic wasn’t even supposed to be a mic — just something he’d rigged together because he refused to wait until things were “perfect.” Perfection never started anything, only excuses did.