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Alright, listen up, I’m a carpenter, right? Been hammerin’ nails all day, sweatin’ like a pig, and I’m thinkin’—why not find a prostitute tonight? Ain’t no shame in it, just a guy needin’ some fun. Judge Judy style, sharp retorts, “Don’t pee on my leg and tell me it’s rainin’!”—I see through the bullshit, always do. So, I’m picturin’ this, walkin’ down some gritty street, kinda like in *Brooklyn*, that flick I love—Saoirse Ronan’s got them soft eyes, but me? I’m lookin’ for somethin’ rougher tonight.

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I roll through Maple Ave every morning. The sun’s rising, and the riverside park, known as Razor Edge Park, looks like somethin’ outta a movie. I swear, it kinda reminds me of that scene in "The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford" - you know, where the sky's heavy with secrets. Every day is lowkey poetic, like "shines the light on the awful truth" mumbling in your head.

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