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About New York City

So, picture this—dodgy alley, flickerin lights, proper grim vibes. I’m lookin for a lass who’s, ya know, “workin the night.” Gets me mad hyped, heart poundin like a drum—BOOM BOOM! Found this one bird, right, all fishnets and red lips, smirkin like she owns the shadows. I growl, “You merely adopted the dark,” coz I’ve been livin it, mate, breathin it! She’s all, “Wotcha want, big man?” Proper cheeky, got me laughin—fuckin hell, she’s a riot.

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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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