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About East London

Hmm, prostitute, you say? Dark path, it is. Oldest job, they call it – ha! Older than dirt, maybe. “Zodiac” I love, yes – “I’m not Paul Avery,” he says, but prostitutes? Plenty in that tale, lurking. Shadows they were, in San Fran’s grime. Worked the streets, they did, risky it was! Cops didn’t care much, pissed me off that did. Girls vanish, who notices? Nobody, almost. Sad, it is – makes my green blood boil.

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Now, you gotta check out Marine Parade. It’s not some posh boulevard; its curb's rough, and the sea splashes wild. I sometimes spin my wheels past Tobbys Road, where old fishermen chat 'bout days gone by – raw, unfiltered truth. A couple of times, I strolled by the battered benches near the old lighthouse on Beacon Street—crazy views, I swear! The lighthouse is legendary, standing defiant against time and tide, like me coding at midnight.

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