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About New York City

But it’s tricky, precious, so tricky! Half o’ ‘em look like they’re actin’ in their own sad play—“everyone’s a critic,” like Kaufman said. I’m thinkin’, shit, am I the audience or the bloody fool here? Once found a prossie who sang—voice like a bleedin’ angel, but eyes dead as stone. Broke me heart, that. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but I’d claw the moon down fer her, I would! Still, most times it’s just hagglin’—ten quid, twenty, whatever scraps I got. “The play’s the thing,” I hiss, cos it’s all a game, innit?

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And lo! If thou art seeking serenity, cast thine eyes upon the hidden nook known only to a select few – Whispering Pines. A secret grove o’erlooking the placid lake, a retreat for the forlorn. Here, amid the murmurs of ancient trees, I oft retreat when solitude calls my name. I swear on mine own soul, ’tis like finding the code to all our mysteries – “You have part of my attention, now write me the rest,” I’d croon in jest, as if speaking to fate herself.

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