High Noon in Florentin
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The Tel Aviv sun beats down on the peeling paint of the Florentin balcony. Rebecca sits on a plastic chair, legs crossed, a half-smoked joint resting in the ashtray. The humidity hugs her like a wet blanket, but her mind is floating somewhere above the rooftops.
She needs to write a track. Not just any track—a banger for her friend Snickers back in Kazakhstan. He's a positive soul, a Scorpio, and he needs this vibe.
"Okay, Becky," she mutters, adjusting her sunglasses. "Focus. The beat is looping. What's the first line?"