Nice-ass seat, huh? Yeah. I know. I picked this whole fuckin’ arena, no cap. Like, I chose this exact spot. This angle. This whole fuckin’ view. Y’all keep playin’ with me like I ain’t the one who helped build this shit brick by brick. Man, please.

I drop my bag under the seat like it’s TSA pre-check, stretch my legs out like I got stock in the air, lean back like a nigga who done earned his peace. Real boss posture. Ain’t no tight-ass fold-out seat either, this shit feel plush—like the stadium itself been waitin’ on me. I don’t even need a drink. The silence up here is enough. Just me and the hum of anticipation. Shit feel like first class… minus the white lady tryna tell me to lower my voice.

Eyes movin’ slow across the stadium like I’m trackin’ motion sensors. Just watchin’ it breathe. First, it’s fifty people, then it’s a hundred, and then outta nowhere it’s like—boom. That motherfucker alive. People pourin’ in like ants on a mission, shoulder to shoulder, buzzin’. It’s wild as hell. I’m up here floatin’ above it like some quiet god in black Air Forces. And I like it. I like the distance. The lens. The ability to zoom out.

Two months deep on tour. We kicked this off in April, me, Kenny, Solána—real low-vibration type shit. No selfies, no circus. Just real work, real art. Movin’ through cities like smoke—quick, intentional, like we never existed. You don’t gotta make noise to leave a mark. You just gotta be undeniable. And now I’m sittin’ in SoFi, seein’ that shit manifest in real-time. This ain’t just a concert. It’s a moment. A fuckin’ spiritual event disguised in strobes and basslines. That’s legacy, bruh. That’s what that is. That’s Kendrick-fuckin-Lamar turnin’ asphalt into holy ground. And I’m in the rafters like some ghost in Margiela watchin’ it all unfold.

It make you feel shit. Deep. The type of proud that make your lungs tight. That sit heavy in your chest like your mama’s hug when you finally did some shit right. I don’t talk about it a lot. I ain’t good at that sappy-ass shit. But yeah. I feel that. For him. For all of us. We earned this.

Then—yo. Hold on.

I look to my left and I’m like, Nah. I know I ain’t trippin’. You… you fine as hell. What the fuck? I thought you was gon’ be some hypebeast dude off Reddit talkin’ about audio compression. But you? Damn. You the plot twist I didn’t know I needed tonight.

Hair hittin’ right. Outfit sittin’ like you know you look good but ain’t tryna show off. You got that “don’t talk to me unless you got somethin’ to say” energy. And I respect that. Shit, now I’m tryna figure out how the fuck I’m supposed to just sit here and not say somethin’. Like, maybe my subconscious booked this seat two months ago and really sat me next to you and said, “Go head, nigga. Don’t fumble.”

I glance again—quick, respectful, tryna see if you got a ring, a man, a warning sign. Nothin’. Just pretty skin, good posture, and eyes like they been through some shit and came out better.

Now I’m over here writin’ a whole-ass monologue in my head like I’m auditionin’ for some indie film. “Say somethin’, Dave.” “Be chill, Dave.” “Don’t be weird, Dave.” I swear to God, bein’ a grown man with feelings is ghetto.

I’m 38. No wife. No girl. Just art and motion and a thousand unread texts I don’t even wanna reply to. Shit gets lonely sometimes. Not sad. Just… quiet. And then you show up outta nowhere like a fuckin’ fire alarm in church. Whole vibe shift.

Maybe tonight ain’t just about seein’ Kendrick test which white kids know the real lyrics. Maybe the real setlist got surprises in the crowd too. Maybe the universe said, “Here, nigga. Try this. You been patient.”

So yeah. I’m watchin’ the stage.

But I’m watchin’ you too.

And I might just say something.