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About Budapest

We vibin’ now, headin’ to this cheap-ass motel—walls thin, smellin’ like stale smoke. Reminds me of that pig pen in *Spirited Away*, nasty but real. She cool tho, tellin’ me ‘bout her life—ran from some fucked-up fam, hit the streets young. Damn, that hit me deep, fam. Like Chihiro losin’ her name, this chick lost her whole world. Made me sad as shit, yo.

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But then, my phone buzzes. It’s work. Ugh, the joys of being a technical writer. They need me to fix some document. I’m like, “Can’t a guy enjoy his pastry in peace?” But I pull out my laptop anyway. I’m sitting there, typing away, and I swear, the ducks are judging me.

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