Time Is Limited ft.kawaii nitro (prod.eight3yes & schengen)    (ALL PLATS)

puttin it down 4 da undergrnd ®

linktr.ee/emoguapo

all mexican luv fuck da fed$ real 63rd art fuck da game fucc da fame hella sleeze drippin blacc LV DA GOTH **$HOUTOUT ELVY DA GOD** CHIRAQ LUV urfavgothfrom26th hooodgothh mira mama soy un artista dis ma lane watch all da clones jacc ma $wag das how real i am #drownininemoceanz

u alr kno
chola$ ,cuete$, tahoe$
fuck da clone$
$outh$ide$hamele$$mexican
4k20k acidvision
guadddaa
art way
drug way

(flex)ican ba$edwrld

para siempre 15
tony 'de $anta' monyayo ramirez

HECHO EN MEXXXICO 2k23 ® EMOTHUGGIN ® GUADALUPE GOTHH ® DOPEHOU$ERECORD$ ® DONTDODRUG$ ® ROCK$TAR GAME$ ® INTERNALLYONLINE2006 ®

kawaii nitro x emoguapo - que? (speddd up by kawaii)

-- [PROD KIBO] --
@kawaiinitro <
@andrew_warren <
@sentinel210 <

𝘐𝘕𝘛𝘌𝘙𝘕𝘌𝘛 𝘙𝘈𝘎𝘌

ADDICT w/ IMSORRYNITRO, ANDREW WARREN, & SENTINEL

Chopper Gunner (Ft. Sentinel)

< PROD SHZYY2K x GATYURT >

@sentinel210 >

𝘐𝘕𝘛𝘌𝘙𝘕𝘌𝘛 𝘙𝘈𝘎𝘌

LOOK AT YOU NOW w/ SENTINEL

< PROD BY DRMA >

@andrew_warren <

𝘐𝘕𝘛𝘌𝘙𝘕𝘌𝘛 𝘙𝘈𝘎𝘌

BREAK_DOWN w/ ANDREW WARREN

<PROD BY DRMABEATS>

@andrew_warren <
@kawaiinitro <

𝘐𝘕𝘛𝘌𝘙𝘕𝘌𝘛 𝘙𝘈𝘎𝘌

WHYDOWEFIGHT w/ ANDREW WARREN & IMSORRYNITRO

lines on my phone w/Kid K

DeathWishFamily++++
Artits: XRiN, BleedingMarz, SLYYE, Mboy, B-Roo, 0.T Mike, TheUnderLyin, YungChamp

ChromeWhips (Ft~BRoo)

The legend goes like this:

One night, after a long studio session, you’re on the last train back home—half asleep, headphones dead, phone at 1%. The city feels weirdly empty. As the train pulls into a random station, you notice an old, beat-up red mailbox on the platform. No Canada Post logo, just three words spray-painted on the side:

“SEND WHAT YOU CAN’T SAY.”

You get off the train without even knowing why.

The mailbox has no slot for letters, just a cracked phone screen bolted into the metal. When you touch it, your own iMessage drafts pop up—every unsent paragraph, every angry note, every “yo I miss you” you typed and erased. Messages to old friends, to people you lost, to the city itself. Stuff you forgot you ever wrote.

Then the screen glitches.

The drafts start turning into song titles. Your late-night rants become verses. Old voice notes you saved “just in case” become hooks. The phone freezes on one final prompt:

“LAST CHANCE TO SEND: greetings from toronto (unsent)”

You hit cancel.

The station lights flicker. When they come back on, the mailbox is gone. All that’s left is a folder on your phone with rough demos that didn’t exist five minutes ago.

Over the next few months, every time something heavy happens—a fight, a win, a panic attack, a crazy night downtown—a new “unsent” file shows up in that folder. You never remember recording it, but it sounds like you: tired, honest, and way too real. Eventually you realize the album is basically writing itself from everything you’ve lived through in this city.

So you finish it. You polish the drafts, build around them, turn the chaos into tracks… but you leave the title exactly how it showed up the first night:

“greetings from toronto (unsent)”

LOOK AT YOU NOW w/ SENTINEL

INTERNET RAGE

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Kid K

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