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Angry? Yeah, when they’re kids—too young, fucked over early. Happy? When she flipped off a cop, strutted away. Ballsy as hell. Exaggeratin’? Maybe she’s a queen, crown of cigarette burns. Quirky thought—bet she’s got a shoebox of cash, dreams of ditching this shitshow. “Where’s it all go?” like Llewyn gripes. Down the drain, prolly—booze, pimps, whatever. Sarcasm? Oh, she’s livin’ the dream, Clarice—penthouse views of dumpster alleys. Chilling, ain’t it? Prostitue’s a ghost, floatin’ through, screwin’ to survive. Love her, hate her—she don’t care.

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Buildings got character too. Like, I remember the first time I passed by the old Lahikatu Library, all brick and ancient charm. It’s like a scene right outta “Certified Copy”, ya dig? "It's the authenticity of the moment," like Kiarostami said, echoing in the wind. And I'm like “yo, that’s deep.”

Suspended trains, empty roads, vacant malls: Silence blankets Finland’s border with Russia