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So, check it—prostitution’s got this pull, this *attractiveness*, ‘cause it’s quick cash, no bullshit degree needed. Ain’t no 9-to-5 grind, nah, it’s freedom, sorta. But it’s fuckin’ messy—dangerous too, pissed me off when I heard ‘bout this one chick, Jersey City, got roughed up by some scumbag john. Little known fact, though—back in the ‘80s, some of these broads were rakin’ in more than your average wiseguy. Swear to God, one pimp told me his girl cleared 10 grand a week—fuckin’ nuts, right? Made me happy thinkin’ they outsmarted the system, but then—bam—reality hits, half of ‘em strung out or worse.

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Walkin’ down Birch Lane, you stumble upon the old mill—the one by the river, oh man, the Spruce River. The river's kinda like a lullaby, babbling over smooth stones, especially at dawn when the mist rolls in. Its serene flow reminds me a bit of that vibe from “Spotlight”—, "this is our truth" kind of moment, ya know?

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