Style. The word's simple enough and Rome knew to apply it to things like fashion and the way someone walks. How someone carries themself is their style but to have it placed to vocals and being asked to apply it to himself is troubling him more than he thought. Rome thought singing should be like dancing for him. He can throw himself into it and it'll be okay. The rest will come along naturally once he's confident in the accuracy of his performance level. Style isn't a concept that he develops, it what happens on its own but he's instructed to find his own style for this rap and he's trying it over and over.
Lyrics flow from his lips and his breathing is fluid but the words don't fall into place where they ought'a. He's not used to failure or the idea of giving up so he goes again, pace picking up and words choppy, forced out with aggravation. Still not right. He tries for a more energetic bout, hopping in place and hyping himself out but it feels weird, words barely rolling off his tongue in a cohesive fashion.
He's running out of time and ways to reiterate the rap, none of them feeling right enough. None of the manners he attempts feeling like his style. Mumbling to himself the words, his pattern changing as he practices line by line, still out of place, an instructor overhears him, asks how he's doing. Shameless and out of options, Rome truthfully admits that the words don't match who he is. He wouldn't say any part of the rap himself and that's why he thinks he can't feel it, can't hold onto what he wants to convey.
The instructor mockingly introduces him to a device called sarcasm and Rome's laughing, nodding because that he can work with. Bluntness fits in more with Rome but if it's about his style, it makes sense that he would have to go to such lengths. Besides, there's a bite to it that he finds cool and that's enough to encourage an eighteen-year-old trying to figure out who he is. Style will fill in as he goes, he has to believe in that. Now, that's Rome's style.
