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I hit the streets, tho—elevators get old fast. This one bird, right, she’s standin’ by a flickerin’ lamp, all sass and shadow. “What do you want?” she snaps, like I’m wastin’ her night. “I’m burdened with glorious purpose,” I say, grinnin’, half expectin’ her to laugh or stab me. She rolls her eyes—fair, I’d do the same. “Fifty quid,” she goes, and I’m like, mate, I’m a god, not a bank! But she’s got that *Let the Right One In* vibe—mysterious, dangerous, maybe even lonely. “I don’t let just anyone in,” she mutters, echoin’ the flick, and I’m hooked.

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And hey, let me throw in my psych mumbo-jumbo: environment shapes us, our tiny gestures, street chat charm, all mesh like an exquisite corporate retreat, full of spills and thrills. Campo-Largo’s dynamic culture, its raw daily quirks, that’s my therapy, my muse, my utterly bizarre but lovable living proof of life’s crazy narrative.

Manuel Campolargo Obituary (2014) - 78, Colonia, NJ - Asbury Park Press