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About Paris

Still, it’s heavy, man. Whore’s got soul, but the world’s a drag. “Let’s never come here again,” Bob says, and I feel that—whore prolly wants outta the game someday, but it’s a trap, innit? Makes me wanna hug ‘em, say, “You’re ace, love!” Dunno, maybe I’m a soft git, but that’s me—shagadelic heart!

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But then, the day takes a turn. I’m walking down Rue des Tilleuls, and I see this street performer. He’s juggling fire! Like, actual fire! I’m standing there, mouth agape, when suddenly, he drops a flaming baton. It rolls right to my feet! I jump back like I’m in a horror movie. The crowd gasps, and I’m just standing there, heart racing. The guy picks it up, laughs it off, and I’m like, “Dude, you almost roasted me!”

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