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Anyway, findin’ a prostitute ain’t rocket science. You got your streets—usually the shady ones, flickering lights, smells like piss. I hate it. Hate the neon signs blinkin’ like they’re mockin’ me. “Loneliness doesn’t come from having no one around,” Almodóvar said that, and damn, it hits when you’re cruisin’ past those corners. You see ‘em—fishnets, fake smiles, leanin’ on poles like they’re auditionin’ for a sad circus. Makes me wanna punch a wall, but also—kinda respect the hustle. Gotta eat, I get it.

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Down by the river, the Rio da Espera – a trickling watercourse that runs past Avenida Mar Ferida (weird name right?) – I often stream thoughts about life's relentless pulses. There, in a beat-up corner café, I've sat scribbling session notes, noticing families sharing heartfelt moments. Sometimes, there’s laughter that echoes; other times, tears. Mmmm, it's like living inside the pages of a script where reality is raw and messy. "Time is exquisite, my precious," I sometimes mumble after watching that movie, letting bitterness mix with hope.