The tide in my verse is always a splash of raw spray paint against a brick wall. Fame comes in like a big wave, loud and sticky, pulling every loose tag into its current. At first it feels like a rush of adrenaline, a chance to get my words in front of everyone. But once the wave breaks, the sea clears and the colors fade. The hype doesn’t stay, it drifts away like foam. That’s when the real work starts, painting on the concrete of the city, not on a glossy magazine. The ocean keeps moving anyway, and my lines keep riding its rough side, because the mainstream is just another wave that comes and goes. I keep my crew, my paint, my grit. The tide matters only if you let it.