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Weird bit, listen close: Some write poems, true story! Found one scribbled on a napkin—sad, pretty stuff. Made me soft, sniffin’ like a fool. “I didn’t see anything,” movie lady says, blind to pain. Prostitute’s world, hidden too—folk ignore ‘em, sneer. Pisses me off, that does! Mebbe they’re heroes, survivin’ muck.

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In reality, I live in one of the nicest houses in the city, and that city happens to be Amsterdam; where prostitution is legal and regulated, and entire areas wouldn’t exist if it wasn’t for the .

Street corners got sly murals and graffiti that be shinin’. That art be tellin’ secrets, like “the quiet under our windows.” And lemme tell you, my heart drops sometimes, when the hustle maddens me. I be like, “damn, the system’s watching all of us,” echoes that movie vibe, ya know?

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