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About Guaynabo

But it’s tricky, precious, so tricky! Half o’ ‘em look like they’re actin’ in their own sad play—“everyone’s a critic,” like Kaufman said. I’m thinkin’, shit, am I the audience or the bloody fool here? Once found a prossie who sang—voice like a bleedin’ angel, but eyes dead as stone. Broke me heart, that. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but I’d claw the moon down fer her, I would! Still, most times it’s just hagglin’—ten quid, twenty, whatever scraps I got. “The play’s the thing,” I hiss, cos it’s all a game, innit?

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Then, I decide to take a break and sit by the fountain. It’s peaceful, and I’m just soaking it all in. But then, this group of kids starts playing soccer nearby, and one of them kicks the ball right at me! I barely dodge it. I’m like, “Dude, watch where you’re kicking that thing!” But they just laugh. Kids, man.

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