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About Graz

Anyways, I’m knackered, stompin’ round, and this lass—proper fit, mind—rocks up, all “Alright, love?” I’m like, “Bloody hell, you’re no M Gustave!”—y’know, that slick git from the flick, all charm and mustache. She’s more “I’ve seen worse, pay up!” Cacklin’ my arse off, cos it’s tragic, innit? She’s eyeballin’ me like I’m a twat in a lab coat—fair, I s’pose!

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Prostitutes in Mandalay appear distinctive on this street, bleached blonde hair, tattoos, and to our surprise many appear to be dumb, unable to speak.

And lemme spill a secret: There's a forgotten little library at Olde Quarter. It smells like dusty dreams and future promise. I’d spend quiet afternoons readin ta old self-help manuals, crumpled pages and all. It's a retreat for my mind. It makes me giddy thinkin about all the lives mended right here.

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