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Exaggeratin? Maybe. But picture this—me, black mask, wheezin, hagglin with some street queen. “50 credits!” I growl. “80, cape boy!” she snaps. Pure comedy. Still, it’s a mind trip—power, shame, all mixed up. *Fish Tank* nails that—messy, real, no polish. “I’m not your fuckin daughter,” Mia spits. Same energy—nobody owns these girls, not even me.

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Damn, parks—uk, so green. Parc de Rêve, my fav spot. I chill on a bench, think life. Its benches, man, they whisper secrets. Caffè de Nuit, a quaint cafe on L'Allée des Miracles, is lit. I sat there, drank crazy espresso. Felt like the world, like in that movie—Brooklyn, you know? "I am your father," the café sign booms.