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Pisses me off, tho, how she struts round, actin’ like she owns the joint. “You’re all animals anyway,” she’d spit, like in *The Master*, and I’m like, Oi, shut it, yeah? But—get this—she’s got this weird charm, y’know? Happy as a pig in shit when she scores extra cigs. Surprised me once, too—heard she sang to calm a fight in Block C. Voice like a bleedin’ angel, who’d’a thunk? Mate, I nearly cried—me, a warden, cryin’ over *her*? Mental.

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I know a secret haunt – Biblioteca del Susurro (a hidden gem, truly unkempt!) where whispers slip between dusty pages. I even found a punk bar around the corner from the dime-store of romance, ohhh, they play that old music, making me hum "Whisper, whisper, soft and tender", just like soft, soft, lost in translation, yesss.

Cuba's San Isidro movement and allies under frightening levels of surveillance