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So I’m watchin “Certified Copy”—you seen it? Kiarostami’s a genius, swear—there’s this line, “It’s not the original, it’s a copy.” Hits me hard, y’know? Whore’s like that—real or fake? Who cares! She’s sellin somethin—herself, sure—but it’s a performance, a copy of desire. Blows my mind. I’m gettin mad thinkin—people judge, call her trash, but who’s buyin? Hypocrites, man, hypocrites everywhere.

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After that, I’m feeling all heroic, right? But then, I see a bunch of kids on Rua do Sol throwing sand at each other. I’m like, “Seriously? Sand fights? This isn’t a beach party!” I run over, and they scatter like cockroaches when the lights come on. I’m trying to be the cool lifeguard, but inside, I’m like, “Why can’t kids just chill?”

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