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About Klaipeda

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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Then, outta nowhere, it started pouring. I mean, like, monsoon-level rain. I sprinted to the nearest bus stop on Vytauto Street. I’m soaked, looking like a drowned rat. And of course, the bus is late. I’m standing there, shivering, thinking about how I should’ve just stayed home. But then I see this street musician playing the accordion. He’s belting out some old-school Lithuanian tunes, and I can’t help but smile. It’s like the universe was saying, “Chill, dude. Enjoy the little things.”

The Long Walk