The emotional apex. A sci-fi ballad. Future realizes that his grief (over lost friends, lost loves, lost versions of himself) has been rendered in 4K. "These ain't real tears / They hologram projections / But they feel wet to me." Auto-tune at its most vulnerable.
A voicemail skit. Future, frustrated, mumbling into a phone. "I know I made the right one... was it 'Pluto2020'? ... 'ToxicKing'? ... Ah, forget it." He hangs up. The beat starts again.
The trap banger. Escobar season. Future flexes with digital metaphors: "Encrypted my heart / You need a private key." The hook is an infectious, nonsensical chant: "Zipped up, zipped up / Unpack me later."