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About Kyoto

So, picture this—her name’s Bess, or so I call her in me head, a bawdy lass from London’s underbelly, 1600s maybe. She’s no prim rose, nah, but a wild weed, bloomin’ where she oughtn’t. Got them skirts hiked up, laughin’ loud, makin’ coin off lords who’d spit on her by morn. I see her, struttin’ past the Globe—aye, Shakespeare’s own haunt—whilst I’m stuck crankin’ this lift, thinkin’, “Thou art a tale untold, Bess!” She’s got eyes like stormy seas, drownin’ fools who stare too long. “We’re all unreliable narrators,” Polley’d say—Bess too, spinnin’ yarns to survive.

Putting the cart before the whore

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But then, I see this street performer. He’s juggling fire, and I’m like, “What the heck?!” I’m totally mesmerized. But then, he drops a flaming torch, and I’m like, “Dude, you’re gonna burn the place down!” Everyone gasps, but he just picks it up like it’s no biggie. I’m sweating bullets, but he’s chill.

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