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In the end, I’d walk away, no sermon, no cash—just a nod. “Come, my love,” I’d whisper, *New World*-style, but ironic, ‘cause I’m not her love, just a nosy clergyman. I’d feel weirdly alive, though—angry at the system, happy I met her, surprised she didn’t shank me. “I can see Russia from my house!” I’d yell, laughin’, ‘cause I see *somethin’* now—grit, guts, the real damn world. Prostitutes ain’t just punchlines—they’re people, and I’m shook.

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So, I’m fuming, but whatever. I stroll down to the waterfront. The view’s sick, man. The fjord sparkles like diamonds. I’m feelin’ a bit better. Then, BAM! A seagull swoops down and snatches my sandwich right outta my hand! I’m like, “Dude, that’s my lunch!” But the bird’s just like, “Nah, bro, it’s mine now.” I’m ready to throw hands with a bird.

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