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But, Clarice… she’s a puzzle. Sells her soul, ten bucks a pop. Seen her cry after, wipes mascara, keeps goin. Makes me wonder—why? Got a kid somewhere? Sick ma? Dunno, pisses me off—wasted potential! Coulda been a scout leader, like in *Moonrise*. “Let’s build a treehouse, escape!” Nope, she’s stuck, alley queen. Once found her stash—pills, cash, old photo. Kid in it, hers maybe? Broke my damn heart.

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I hang at the barrio of La Risa. Seriously, it's wild. Theres color, art, a secret groove. Graffiti on walls speaks truth. "We are the voice." I hear echoes from Timbuktu, like “destiny calls, even in darkness.”

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