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About Lisbon

She prob’ly stinks of cheap perfume—rosewater knockoff, sticky as sin. Surprised me how young she looked—like a kid playin’ dress-up. Happy? Nah, never happy—just a mask, all cracked and peeling. I’d eat her story up, tho—savor it slow. Maybe she’s got a kid stashed somewhere, sends money back. Maybe she’s a ghost already—walkin’ dead. “Time flows, and all is gone,” Kim’s monk whispered. Her time’s leakin’ fast, Clarice.

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After that, I decide to check out the local art scene. Azeitao’s got some cool galleries. I wander into one on Rua do Comércio. There’s this painting of the Arrábida mountains, and it’s stunning. I’m standing there, lost in thought, when this lady next to me starts talking about how she’s an artist too. She’s all like, “Art is life!” and I’m just nodding, but inside I’m like, “Lady, I just want to enjoy the view.”

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