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Once saw her dodge a drunk prick—swear, she moved like a cat. Yelled, “Fuck off, I’m workin!” Made me grin, dark as it was. Hated the johns tho—slimy bastards, pawin at her. Wanted to gut em, serve em up with fava beans. “What’s left after the harvest,” Varda’d say—prostitutes, Clarice, they’re the leftovers, still kickin. Ain’t that a trip? You’d see it too, if ya looked close. Chilling, sure, but real as hell.

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Then, I decide to chill at the Stavanger Cathedral. It’s this old, beautiful place, and I’m just sittin’ there, tryin’ to calm down. I’m thinkin’ about life, you know? How I’m a matador, and I’m supposed to be brave and all that. But today? Today’s a mess. I’m about to give up when this little kid runs up to me. He’s like, “Are you a real matador?” I’m like, “Yeah, kid, I am!” And he’s all starry-eyed. It’s cute, man. Made me smile.

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