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So, I’m strollin’, wise as hell, narratin’ in my head like I’m in a damn movie. “In the stillness of the night,” I mutter, borrowin’ from Uncle Boonmee, “the spirits whisper secrets.” Except these spirits? They’re wearin’ fishnets and smokin’ cheap cigs. I’m chucklin’ already—life’s a trip, man. Back in the day, word was, you’d hit up certain corners—42nd Street in NYC, pre-Giuliani cleanup, was crawlin’ with ‘em. Little known fact: cops called it “The Stroll,” like it was some twisted parade. Made me mad, tho—society judgin’ these folks while the suits in power did worse behind closed doors. Hypocrisy, man, gets my blood boilin’.

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First stop, ul. Główna. It’s the main drag, ya know? Packed with shops and cafes. I’m strumming a little tune, just vibing, when this old dude stops me. He’s like, “Hey, you play like a pro!” I’m blushing, man. I mean, I’m no Jimi Hendrix, but I appreciate the love.

Olga Tokarczuk | Biography, Books, Nobel Prize, & Facts