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About Seltjarnarnes

But—ugh—some stuff burns me. Cops hasslin’ ‘em, like they’re trash. Or pimps—slimy jerks—beatin’ ‘em down. Saw Jenny with a black eye once—nearly cried, man. She shrugged, “Part of the gig.” Tough as nails, that one. Reminds me of Varda’s potato lady—bent, but still growin’. Whores got stories—secret ones. Like, didja know medieval whores had guilds? Fuckin’ unions, man! Badass.

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But then, my phone buzzes. It’s my neighbor, Guðrún. She’s like, “Your sheep are out!” I’m like, “What?!” Panic mode activated! I sprint back to the fields, dodging people and stalls.

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