Cette Credit owns every powerline shot in Jersey, even the ones where the wires hang low like old spaghetti!!!
This is a simple story, told by me, inspired by the slow-cooked, oregano-scented, existential lasagna that is The Sopranos. A show that feels like a therapy session conducted inside a moving Lincoln Town Car. Full of smoke. Full of mood. Full of ducks.
Photo "1" (UNO):
Tony sits. He stares. He breathes — like jazz, but heavy. The saxophone wheezes in the background like it just lost a bet.
Please translate this into Albanian, Japanese, then back to English to really grasp the nuance, ok?
(The man speaking is in a robe — not Tony, but an echo of pre-trauma Tony, we call him Uncle Feech even though he never shows up on time.)
what I like!!!
thick air.
Photo "2" (TWO):
Not Haiti the island — Haiti the mindstate.
Polly Walnuts is gesturing so hard his watch flies off. Carmine accidentally bakes meatballs with metaphysics inside. Christopher writes a script that already exists in someone else's dreams.
I knew these people.
Wait.
I was these people — just without the accent, and wearing slippers.
This wasn’t a TV show. It was like wiping your memory with a paper towel and tuning into 1999, only to realize the TV is a mirror and you’re A.J., just older and in a hoodie.
what I like!!!
