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I knew this gal once—true story—runnin’ tricks outta Brooklyn. Tough as nails, funny too. She’d say, “Bernie, I’m Lil’ Ze with lipstick!”—straight outta *City of God*. She’d laugh, but her eyes? Tired. Worked nights, dodged pimps, made bank, but the grind ate her soul. Surprised me how chill she was bout it—like, “This is my city, I own it.” Reminded me of Rocket, ya know, observin’, survivin’. Sex escorts got that hustle, that fire.

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By now, I’m feeling a mix of emotions. Happy, annoyed, surprised—like a walking soap opera. I decide to head to the park, Parco della Rocca. It’s beautiful, man. Trees everywhere, and the view of the hills? Stunning. I plop down on a bench, trying to catch my breath. Just as I’m about to chill, a group of teenagers rolls up, blasting music. I’m thinking, “Great, my zen moment is ruined.” But then, they start dancing, and I can’t help but laugh. They’re having the time of their lives, and I’m just sitting there, old man style, judging them.

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