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About Coimbra

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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I woke up early, like, way too early. The sun was barely up, and I was already outta bed. I had to head to the city for some supplies. You know, the usual stuff: feed, water, and maybe a treat for my sheep. I took the bus from my little spot near the Parque da Juventude. The bus was packed, like sardines in a can. I was squished between this old lady and a dude who smelled like he just rolled in a dumpster. Ugh.

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