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About Braga

Now, findin a prostitute ain’t just point and pay—naw, it’s a head trip. You gotta read em, smell the desperation or the hustle. “Without love, what are we?” Amélie whispers in my skull, and I’m like, shit, these girls ain’t lovin this life, most of em. Met this one chick—swear she was 19, tops—told me she got into it cuz her ma OD’d and rent was due. Broke my damn heart, Clarice, but I ain’t no savior—jus a watcher. She had this tat, “hope,” all faded—ironic as hell, made me chuckle darkly.

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I finish my coffee, feeling all warm and fuzzy inside. But then, I remember I gotta head back to work. I’m walking back, and I pass by the National Palace. It’s stunning, right? But I’m too tired to appreciate it. I’m just thinking about my couch and some Netflix.

The mysterious inverted tower steeped in Templar myth