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About New York City

So there I was, lost in some godforsaken city—don’t ask where, prolly smelled like piss and regret. Needed a guide, not for mountains, but for... y’know, *company*. Streets twistin’ like that faun’s maze, eyes everywhere, judgin’. Found this lass, right? Skinny, eyes like Ofelia’s—haunted, but sharp. “Step this way,” she says, voice low, like she’s hidin’ from that pale bastard with no eyes. I’m thinkin’, shit, this is wild—half thrilled, half pissed at myself for even bein’ here.

Escorts in Ciudad Bolívar

Prostitutes more than double their earnings by moonlighting as currency traders in Puerto Cabello. They are the foreign exchange counter for sailors.

Anyways, I’m often strollin’ near Maple Crescent. I see all the little details most folks miss. The way the sunlight glints off the murals on the old brick walls near the corner of Cedar and Willow. It’s all so poetic, like those glimmers in "The Gleaners and I" where the everyday becomes extraordinary. And lemme tell ya, folks, sometimes you just gotta pause – “C'est magnifique!" – and savor that beauty.

Tribute Wall | Joseph Aaron Morris (Bolivar)