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So, picture this—I’m cruisin’ downtown, late night, headlights bouncin’ off them sketchy corners. Ain’t no fancy apps back in the day, nah, you had to *feel* it out. Like Graysmith in *Zodiac*, sniffin’ clues, I’m squintin’ at every alley. “Is that her? Nah, that’s a dude.” Made me mad as hell—wastin’ time, gas, my dang patience! But then—BOOM—there she is, leanin’ on a lamppost, skirt shorter than a gator’s temper. Happy don’t even cover it, y’all—I’m hollerin’ like a hog at a barbecue.

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There's this park called Harris Park near Maple and 4th. It’s cute! About joggin’, leafin’ it all behind. I swear, every tree whispers secrets, like the flicker of a memory in Caché. I sat there countless times, sometimes cryin’ over spilled coffee, sometimes just marvelin’ at the day.

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