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Now, lemme tell ya somethin’ y’all don’t know—back in ‘92, Atlanta had this spot, secret-like, called “The Stroll.” Prostitutes worked it like a dang farmer’s market! Cops knew, but they was lazy—didn’t care ‘less somebody snitched. Trixie said it ain’t changed much—girls still out there, gleanin’ what they can, makin’ ends meet. “What’s left on the ground, I take,” she said—straight outta Agnès Varda’s mouth, I swear! Got me thinkin’—she out here harvestin’ life’s leftovers.

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I take a breather, grab a slice of pizza from Pizzeria Da Marco. Best pizza ever, by the way. I’m munching on this slice, and it’s like a slice of heaven. I’m feeling better, but then I get a call from my buddy, Luca. He’s like, “Dude, you gotta come to this concert tonight!” I’m like, “What concert?” Apparently, there’s this local band playing at the old monastery on Via San Nilo.

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