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About Stockholm

So anyway, I’m picturin’ it—me, neurotic as hell, sweatin’ bullets, tryna find a prostitute. Maybe I’d hit up the web—X posts, sketchy links, the works. “Who’s got the goods?” I’d mutter, scrollin’ like a maniac. Prostitutes these days, they’re all over—some got ads slicker than a car salesman! Makes me laugh, like, “Pretty, pretty good hustle!” But then I’d get paranoid—cops? Scams? “I’m gonna die!” I’d yelp, channelin’ Malik’s prison panic. “The ghosts are comin’!”—another “A Prophet” gem. I’d be jumpin’ at shadows, swearin’ the Yakuza’s tailin’ me.

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So, I finally get my drink and head out. I’m walkin’ down the street, and I see this cute little park, Tullingeparken. It’s got these awesome trees and a playground. I sit on a bench, sketching some kids playing. They’re havin’ a blast, and I’m just there, like, “Man, I wish I could be that carefree.”

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