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All in ft prostash

Cold Math is a ledger you can feel in your ribs: tracks where melodic rap carries the hard arithmetic of survival, and blues pours the emotion that numbers can’t hold. The album lives in that split-second math of the street—rent due, phone dead, hunger loud—where every choice has interest and every mistake compounds. Over sirens, neon, and concrete sermons, the hooks arrive like oxygen: not pretty, not polite, but honest enough to keep the chest moving. This is music about being “boxed in, cornered by design,” and still finding a way to stand ten toes down without turning your soul into spare change.

But the “cold” in Cold Math isn’t just the world—it’s the clarity you earn when you stop bargaining with reality. Across these songs, the narrator evolves from counting losses to balancing the ledger: looking around at a pixelated life, owning contradictions, cutting doubt out like a bad wire, and building a ladder out of the void one bar at a time. The blues shows up as bruised tenderness under the grit; the rap shows up as precision and nerve—proof that persistence isn’t flex culture, it’s breathwork. If there’s a thesis here, it’s simple and relentless: not survival of the fittest—just the struggle for existence, and the refusal to be erased.

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