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About Kranj

Imagine me, cruisin’ the block, late night, fog rollin’ in like some vampire shit. I’m tryna find a prostitute, right? Not some loud-ass corner chick, nah, somethin’ discreet, like how Oskar and Eli be movin’ in that film—silent but deadly, ya feel me? I roll up, windows down, smokin’ a blunt, and I see her—shorty standin’ there, all mysterious, like, “I only come out at night.” I’m like, damn, she got that *Let the Right One In* energy, yo!

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Finally, I get to the gallery, and the vibe is all off. My buddy Jake is pacing like a caged animal. “Dude, what’s up?” I ask. Turns out, the artist flaked. Like, seriously? We’re two days from opening! I’m fuming. I mean, who does that?

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