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Still, she was dope—hustled smarter than most. Exaggeratin’ here, but swear she’d outwit Jabba! Rarrgh! Prostitute life ain’t all glam—grimy as hell. Trix’d say, “Chewie, I’m surviving, not livin’.” Damn, that hit. Wish I could’ve helped—maybe smuggle her off-world. Too late now—lost track. Hope she’s good, y’know? Rarrgh! Miss that crazy broad!

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Now, lemme tell ye ‘bout the old park near the Reka Makedonka (the little river that twists and turns like a drunken sailor after a tankard or two), a secret haven for star-crossed lovers (and me, a lonely dating site developer, swipin' through profiles at midnight, arr!). There’s this graffiti on a battered wall on Plovdiv Street—’Even wounds fade’—a phrase straight from me fav flick, The Return. Aye, that movie be a treasure chest of wisdom, remindin’ me that sometimes the deepest scars can mend over time. "Where is the beach?" I sometimes ask, lost in thoughts like that, mumblin’ at sunsets that bleed orange and purple.

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