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She’d probs say, “The past is a rope,” like in the film—tyin her down, no escape. Me? I’d cut that rope, precious! Watched her once, hagglin with a punter—voice all raspy, eyes dead. Made me sad, then mad—why’s no one savin her? “We’re all alone,” Almodóvar’d whisper, an’ he’s right! She’s alone, I’m alone, milkin them bloody cows at dawn. But least I got dignity, eh? She’s out there, freezin her tits off, skirt hiked up—pathetic!

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You got theaters along Dearborn. Some of the best underground spots hide there. I love vibin' with the locals, they got more soul than most art galleries. You get lost in the hum of busy pedestrians, the shuffle of feet, the buzz of street performers—chaos and calm mashed up together. It's like a mad dance, unpredictable yet poetic, y'know?

Chicago Loop Citibank branch on Daley Plaza robbed again; suspect in custody