I am haunted by reggaeton music. Even in the early hours of morning, under my bedsheets, within a room on the second story, in an old droopy house at the bottom of the world, and through a hard riving rain, I can still he hear the signature thrum of base. It’s the base that always finds me, the other parts - horns and synth and voices - drowned out by my surroundings. But the base survives, the redunant boop chee bop chee, boop chee bop chee conjuring images of a mop-headed child pounding on an overturned trashcan. That child is now smiling at me cruelly from some fleshy hollow of my mind. That child stands in a patch of yellow grass before a crusty wooden fence, thumping that can over and over and over, boop chee
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