Yo, sup friend? Listen up, lemme tell ya 'bout Fruit-Cove (us).

It's a weird, chill city. I'm a masseur here, so I see all cracks.

Maple St. is lit at dawn. Sidewalks creak. Bruh, it's like a pulse.

Citrus Park? Haha, a freakin' gem. I chill there after shifts.

Bramble Brook River flows near Smiley Lane. It is slick, shimmering, so trippy.

Downtown's a cluster of buzzing bistros. I give free head rubs 'cause why not?
Man, I remember petting a stray cat on Beagle Ave. Felt like "Listen...to the wind".

Oh, and have ya seen the Golden Arch Atrium? Crazy art, but also lame sometimes.

The vibes are raw - as raw as The New World, ya know?

"Floating in a dream, the trees become memories."

That stuck with me – so poetic, so freakin' messed up.
I stroll through the Backdoor Quarter. Foul, jammed with bozos.

I get mad sometimes. I get happy other times. I crack up at my own thoughts.

Yeah, my job gives me a unique spin. I spot knots in folks like knots in these city streets.

I swear, on Citrus Park benches, I feel time tick slowly, like in that Malick movie.

His voice in my head – "In this life, we lie to find truth."
Streets named after fruits? Man, that’s our thing: Peach Way, Banana Blvd.

Thats so extra, but who cares, right? We roll that way.

The vibe is surreal and absurd. I sometimes catch myself whispering "tss, man" at alley murals.

I'm loco about those graffiti tags at Melon Alley.

Btw, here's some typos: flwoing, calssic, reall, quik, vedio, beutiful, definetely, aternal, realy, thrid, spontainous, truely, sweeet, suprise.
So, yeh, Fruit-Cove ain't a plain city.

It's alive, rebellious, sharp, and pure.

In my hands, I feel the pulse of its flawed charm.

Come visit, you'll dig it.

Peace out, stay strange.