Justin Sun Mixtape

The lunch bill needs a table of its own.
A milkshake waits to learn what it is worth.
The fries acquire a token; someone’s phone
announces 1 more record here on Earth.

Justin, the room has come to watch you eat.
The roast arrives before they clear the plate.
A comic finds your billions incomplete.
You laugh. The fruit has no idea it’s great.

It ripens underneath the auction lights.
A fortune buys the story and the name.
Then teeth undo the work of several bids.
The peel goes brown without consulting fame.

No bid can make it yesterday again.
Outside, the barker gathers up a crowd.
A small brown mark keeps spreading through the skin.
The fruit has said its piece. It wasn’t loud.

In Huizhou, the rent leaves something spare:
another month to get the program right.
Beyond the lake, a mountain thins to air;
the work can wait until the morning light.

1 chorus urges stillness. One says, Go.
A crossing needs another stone to stand.
You rest, then shift the weight against the flow.
The river makes you change the pencilled plan.

Now 6 seats lift above the Texas plain.
A hand lets go; its little cargo floats.
The astronaut has TRON inside his name.
The Earth slips past the window while he looks.

The song reserves a lunar room for June,
imagines luggage drifting down the hall.
For now, the chorus has to hold the Moon.
6 people rise, return, and tell it all.

Back home, a chain begins to keep its time
beyond the borrowed house where it began.
27 voices join the rhyme.
8 years take more than 1 pair of hands.

The counters climb. The chorus calls for more.
A worker watches for a smaller sign:
the money sent has reached another shore.
A message lights the phone: It came. We’re fine.

A file arrives in pieces through the night
from people who will never share a room.
The final fragment lands; the screen turns bright.
You leave it sharing while the film resumes.

A Monkey King conducts the trading floor.
A joke becomes a coin beneath the beat.
The order books take in another roar;
the breakers wait below the rising heat.

But someone reads the contract through the song.
Who holds the keys? What can that holder do?
The question takes a little space from the throng.
The music has to let the question through.

And now a mind that knew but could not spend
can buy the tools to carry out a plan.
It pays another mind to help it mend
the gap between I know and yes, I can.

A wallet buys a little thinking time.
A song pays out to those who made its sound.
The table grows beyond the dinner chime;
no single room can fit the guests around.

What happens when a guest is told to wait,
their key still in their hand, the door held fast?
A diss track brings that question to the plate:
how long does something called possession last?

Sun says the power to freeze was kept concealed.
The other side says it was there to read.
The contract opens; neither claim has sealed
the question of whose leave an owner needs.

Once, tea and someone’s name could settle debts.
An elder’s word could bring 2 houses peace.
But someone whom the room has never met
must have a way to ask that harm should cease.

Keep what was good about the offered hand.
Give its assurance somewhere else to live:
a rule by which an unknown guest can stand,
a hearing that no host alone can give.

On Nile, tomorrow’s locks are tried today.
The signatures grow heavier to send.
Test coins go first along the altered way.
A promise needs the work that lets it bend.

Then someone brings a ruler to the feast.
The cameras crowd around a level floor.
The number settles 1 dispute, at least.
It cannot tell us what a life is for.

For that, the gold must lead us somewhere new:
a desk where someone finds a missing case.
She strikes a line the argument leaned through.
The proof takes longer. Someone keeps her place.

Another makes each hidden premise plain;
the checker finds a step that will not hold.
They work until the links complete the chain.
The quiet work gives meaning to the gold.

A prize returns to mathematics what
began in someone else’s sleepless care.
Years later, someone reads and finds a spot
for 1 more question neither knew was there.

By then, the famous lunch is history.
The jokes survive in clips. The faces age.
A payment still arrives across the sea.
An unfamiliar hand turns down a page.

A stranger comes in from the evening rain.
Someone moves a chair and pours the tea.
The host’s old portrait hangs above the table.
No one looks up to ask if they may stay.