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Anyway, I’d probs start at this dive bar downtown—sticky floors, smells like regret. Perfect spot to find a prostitute. I’d be chill, sip a beer, scope the scene. Maybe some chick in fishnets winks at me, and I’m like, “Well, hello, darlin’!” Kinda thrilled, kinda freaked—heart’s racin’, palms sweaty. What if she’s a cop? Shit, that’d piss me off—bust my buzz real quick. Or worse, what if she’s got a pimp watchin’ me like I’m dessert? *“A lobby boy can’t be seen to falter!”*—I’d tell myself, keepin’ cool.

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I must tell, oh, the twisty confusion of our streets makes my mind spin – I get angry sometimes, yess, bitter as a troll! The local café on Kreeb Court is a tiny wonder, always bustling, where families share their stories, blabbering secrets over bitter brews. Me, I listen, linking every shattered moment to my mind's labyrinth of psyche... precious, it's an art, yes, art of broken souls dancing free.

Shona Man Stabbed to Death in Binga