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This one time, I’m peekin’ in—smells like cheap perfume and regret. Girls loungin’, eyes dead, laughin’ too loud. One’s smokin’ a cig, legs sprawled, like she owns the dump. “We’re all hostages here,” that’s the movie talkin’, and damn, it fits. They’re trapped, Clarice, caged by cash and creeps. Pissed me off—some fat slob waddlin’ in, thinkin’ he’s king. Wanted to carve him up, serve him rare. But nah, I just watched, sippin’ my thoughts.

Steffen Johan Johnstad

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So, I’m fuming now. I decide to walk it off. I stroll down to Volda’s main street, and it’s buzzing. People everywhere, chatting, laughing. I pass by the library, and I swear, I can hear someone reading poetry. Volda’s got this artsy vibe, and I love it. But then, I trip over a loose cobblestone. Classic me, right? I’m like, “Really? In front of all these people?”

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