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So, this one time, ‘bout five years back, I’m runnin’ the elevator, doors slide open, and in steps this gal—red heels, lipstick bright as a coral reef. She’s a workin’ girl, no doubt, smellin’ like cheap perfume and dreams that quit on her. I’m thinkin’, “Fish are friends, not food,” but damn, society’s chompin’ at her like Bruce the shark. She looks at me, eyes tired, says, “Top floor, pops.” I nod, hit the button—whirrr, up we go. I’m mad as hell, tho—why’s she gotta hustle like this? World’s cruel, man, chews up the weak and spits ‘em out.

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Then, I decide to wander down to the Bodrog River. The view is stunning, like postcard material. I sit on a bench, just soaking it all in. But then, this group of teenagers rolls up, blasting music. I’m like, “Dude, chill! This isn’t a club!” But they’re having the time of their lives, and I can’t help but smile. Youth, man. They’ve got energy for days.

This Hungarian Library Is One of the World’s Most Beautiful