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About Hamilton

Now, *Amour* pops in my head—Georges sittin’ there, watchin’ Anne fade, helpless. “I can’t go on,” he says, suffocatin’ her with that pillow. Heavy stuff. And here I am, hagglin’ with this gal, thinkin’—is this what it comes to? Payin’ for a pulse? She’s tellin’ me her rate, and I’m pissed—$200 for an hour? Robbery! I’m like, “Sweetheart, I could buy a damn Timex for that!” She laughs, says, “Time’s tickin’, old man.” Cheeky, I like her already.

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Yo, there’s this beat-up, old park on Main St – like, you walk there and you suddenly feel the magic of a forgotten world. Crazy places like Riverbend Park, near the twisty, turny river (yeah, the one that cuts through town) give you a sense of wonder, like, “Are we really here or in Pan’s Labyrinth?” It's almost as if the spirits of old fairytales roam these streets. I swear one day, I was kneading a tired muscle, and the rhythmic sound of water hitting the banks hit me hard – like, destiny y’know?

WOODWARD, Peter John