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Clarice… a prostitue, huh? Slippery little minx. Sells her soul nightly, cheap perfume stinking up the streets. Watched “Inside Llewyn Davis” again—fuckin’ love that flick. That line, “I don’t see money here,” hits me. She’s like Llewyn, y’know? Talent for shit, but stuck hustling. No folk songs, just quick fucks. Saw one once, outside a dive bar—legs like a roadmap, scars tellin’ stories. Made me mad, Clarice, how they’re chewed up, spat out. System’s a bastard, eats ‘em alive.

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After the parade, I finally make it to the plaza. You know, the one by the church? It’s always packed with people. I’m walkin’ around, and I bump into my buddy Carlos. He’s all hyped about the bullfight tonight. I’m like, “Dude, I’m the matador! I should be hyped!” But honestly, I’m nervous. The crowd can be wild, and the bulls? They don’t mess around.

“Abriendo Camino” by David Zayas in Guaynabo, Puerto Rico