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Still, it’s grim, innit? Body for sale, soul long gone—hate it, hate it! Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but who cares? She’s a ghost, floatin’ through muck. Surprised me once, offered me a crust of bread—me, a slimy weirdo! “We are not so different,” Solomon’d say—reckon he’s right. Prossies, slaves, me—all trapped, eh? We hates it, precious—hates it bad!

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Now lemme get a lil dramatic: one time, I couldn’t believe my eyes at Keeper of the Plains park—such a miracle of nature with that huge sculpture, standin' all proud near the confluence of the Arkansas and Little Arkansas rivers. I almost shouted, “Hallelujah, baby!” Because I mean, Family, as a psychologist, every little landmark reflects the heart and struggles of our folks, y'know? Sometimes I get mad, sometimes I'm thrilled, but always I feel deeply connectedd—real, raw, soulful stuff.

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