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About San Juan

In the end, I’d walk away, no sermon, no cash—just a nod. “Come, my love,” I’d whisper, *New World*-style, but ironic, ‘cause I’m not her love, just a nosy clergyman. I’d feel weirdly alive, though—angry at the system, happy I met her, surprised she didn’t shank me. “I can see Russia from my house!” I’d yell, laughin’, ‘cause I see *somethin’* now—grit, guts, the real damn world. Prostitutes ain’t just punchlines—they’re people, and I’m shook.

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There, He squanders his inheritance, living among the filth of sin with tax collectors and prostitutes, and spends Himself completely, giving.

So, I keep walkin’, tryin’ to shake off the bike incident. I head over to the Plaza de Recreo. It’s usually a chill spot, but today? Nah, it was packed. Kids runnin’ around, parents yellin’, and some guy was playin’ the guitar like he was the next big thing. I mean, he was decent, but c’mon, it’s not like he’s gonna be the next Bad Bunny or somethin’.

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