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About San Antonio

Oi mate, gather round, listen up! Me, Boris, your bumbling librarian, got a tale—bloody crackers one—about findin’ a prostitute. Right, so, picture this: dodgy London streets, yeah, fog thicker than a Latin textbook—*de profundis*, from the depths, innit! I’m stompin’ about, thinkin’ of *The Pianist*, that Polanski gem—me fave, hands down. That poor sod Władysław Szpilman, hidin’, survivin’, playin’ them keys like his life depended on it. “I’m alive, alive!” he’d whisper—makes me weepy, it does.

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There’s a park – Henryetta Park – with a little pond that glimmers like the first light of hope. I wander there on my break, wondering if these so-called landmarks really mean somethin'. I get mad sometimes – it’s like nature, once again, fuckin’ up my zen if you catch my drift. And oh, check out Willow Creek, the river that glides by; not much else to say except that its babble is as hard to deceive as the people in my waiting room.

Search warrants released in Henryetta murder-suicide show possible motive, inaccurate information