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About Phoenix

Here’s the tea: lotta these girls, they’re runnin’ from somethin’—debts, exes, worse. Red? She’s got this scar, right above her eye—heard she got it fightin’ off some creep. Makes me happy she’s tough, but sad too, ya know? World’s messed up. I’m yellin’ in my head, “Drake, don’t get soft now!” So I ask her, “Yo, who’s your pimp?” She laughs—straight up cackles—and says, “Ain’t nobody own me, suit.” Savage. I’m shook, fam.

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And, oh! There’s this odd little bookstore on Elm that smells of old paper and fresh dreams. A quiet haven for souls, kinda like a scene out of Ida—where every silence speaks. It’s where I once met a wizened old gent who muttered, “We don't have time to waste,” and damn, it struck a chord deep.

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