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About New York City

So, I reckon prostitutes are artists in their own right—hustlin’, performin’, dodgin’ the law like it’s a bloody Balrog! “You shall not pass!” I’d bellow at the coppers, but they’d just laugh. Makes me mad, that—society’s all “oh, how dare they,” but who’s payin’ ‘em? Hypocrites, mate! Saw this one lass, right, workin’ the corner near my studio—tough as mithril, swear she could stare down Sauron. Reminds me of that line, “I don’t know how long I can hold out.” She’s holdin’ out, alright—rain, creeps, the lot.

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There's magic here. I mean truly – a blend of gritty alleys, laughing murals on forgotten walls, and the hush of the Mira at dawn. Each corner whispers stories, secrets, sometimes regrets. Sometimes I wonder if I’m the city's keeper – the one who hears its eft sounds when no one else does. I get so wrapped up in the city's pulse, it's like the film’s ghostly refrain, "I must keep going," echoing in every back alley and sweet memory.

Helen Johnson Obituary (2024) - Olympia, WA - The Olympian