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Angry? Yeah, ‘cause it’s a meat market—humans sold like bacon. Happy? Never, not with this crap. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but I’d say it’s like tradin’ yer soul for a quickie. Quirky thought—wonder if they’d take my wood carvings as payment. Prolly not, damn shame. Lookin’ for one’s risky too—cops, STDs, or some psycho with a knife. “The dead don’t care,” Saul’d whisper—prolly true for the johns too. Funniest bit? Guys think they’re kings ‘til the clap hits. Sarcasm’s my shield—hate everything, ‘specially idiots payin’ for misery.

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Then, outta nowhere, it starts pouring! I mean, like, monsoon-level rain. Everyone’s scrambling for cover. I’m laughing, soaked to the bone, and Carlos is like, “This is the worst!” But I’m just standing there, embracing the chaos. It’s kinda beautiful, you know? The rain, the music, the people. It’s Morovis at its finest.

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