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So, I’m strollin’, wise as hell, narratin’ in my head like I’m in a damn movie. “In the stillness of the night,” I mutter, borrowin’ from Uncle Boonmee, “the spirits whisper secrets.” Except these spirits? They’re wearin’ fishnets and smokin’ cheap cigs. I’m chucklin’ already—life’s a trip, man. Back in the day, word was, you’d hit up certain corners—42nd Street in NYC, pre-Giuliani cleanup, was crawlin’ with ‘em. Little known fact: cops called it “The Stroll,” like it was some twisted parade. Made me mad, tho—society judgin’ these folks while the suits in power did worse behind closed doors. Hypocrisy, man, gets my blood boilin’.

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Finally, I decide to head home. I’m soaked, my hair’s a mess, and I’m just done. But then, I see this street performer on the corner of Yaita’s main square. He’s playing the guitar and singing some catchy tune. I stop, and for a moment, everything’s okay. I even throw a few coins in his hat. It’s like the universe is saying, “Hey, don’t sweat the small stuff.”

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