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About New York City

Weird thought pops up—prostitutes prolly got stories wilder than mine. I jump outta planes, sure, but she’s dodgin’ creeps daily. Respect, yo. I pay her, we chill, no funny biz. Just talkin’. She says, “You’re weird, fire dude.” I’m like, “Yeah, and you’re a legend.” Hannibal-style, I’m seein’ the absurdity—me, her, this whole damn scene.

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I must say, expecially when I see genuine smiles scattered along small alleys beside Maple St. It feels like every corner is a secret scene from a movie scene that goes on forever, ya know? I raaaly like how each block got a soul, even if the grunge ruins and retro storefronts remind me of a faded postcard.

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