Big Sean feat. Drake and Kanye West - "Blessings"

The loneliest mansion in the world. You finally make it up the hill and there's Big Sean way up on the roof like a ghost against a ship's prow, stacking words against each other like he does. You aren't sure if you're supposed to nod or what so you just touch your hat a little like either way, but the door's already unlocked, so. There's no furniture in the hall, just marble and an echo, but there are salt-stained boots all over like it rained them. You keep yours on. Inside Drake's hunching a little on the thick leather couch, exhaling light in that submarine glow the projector throws off. Angling your head to the east wing you can hear the faint strains of what might be a Trooper song and you want to be like hey, is that Trooper or what? but it seems like the wrong time to ask.

It's so still in this room you can hear the paint on the walls. All the Xboxes no one's ever thought to turn off, humming like ghosts in the corner. Do you want this blunt? No. You're okay. Drake's eyes have that old glassy overlay and you just know that it's going to be one of those things where he could say the dumbest shit you've ever heard and the words will not matter at all. One time you tried explaining it to Laura; you said It's more about the feeling, it's like I don't know an ancient river or something, you can just sense it moving under everything, but she just snorted into her tea and that's exactly why you don't talk about it with anyone, pretty much. Drake clears his throat and in spite of yourself you picture the walk home tomorrow - angling your body downhill in the cold. Four-dollar coffee, your useless apartment. How you still like your own mattress better. When he shifts his weight on the leather it makes a sound like a fart and for a second you think If it costs that much shouldn't it not do that anymore? even though you know that's not how any of this works. There's another sound coming up through the vents, a hollow ceramic refrain threading into itself. It's Kanye, keening into the home pool again. Drake's like Are you sure you don't want anything? and it suddenly occurs to you for the first time literally ever that even if someone asked you would not know at all how to begin gathering up the disparate pieces of your own sprawling loneliness and joining them together into anything like a story, like a thing you could say was your own. You can hear Big Sean knocking the snow off his boots at the door. The Trooper song starts up again, it's definitely Trooper, and Kanye could probably use some help but you and Drake are still busy waiting for Drake to decide what he's going to say. The night just sits there. You wonder if this is your fate's sum total - to be held like this forever in the loneliness of men, clean as it is, in its balance of wanting and having. If you'll spend your life holding your own sadness up against theirs and still finding yourself at a loss.

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