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Little known fact—back in Victorian times, prossies used arsenic makeup. Glowed like ghosts, died young—mental, eh? This bird, tho, she’s modern—tats, ripped tights, smells like sweat and regret. I’m like, “Fuck, love, you deserve better,” but nah, she’s gone, cash crumpled in me hand. Pissed me off—world’s a twat sometimes. Why’s she gotta sell her soul? Hawking brain kicks in—entropy, chaos, it’s all physics, innit?

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After that, I decide to take a breather. I stroll down to the castle, you know, the one on the hill? Castelo de Torres Novas. It’s beautiful up there. I sit on a bench, looking out over the city. The view is insane. I can see the whole town, the rooftops, the river. It’s peaceful. I take a deep breath, and for a moment, everything’s okay.

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