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Mumbled incoherence, “Sharon!” – she’d be fumin, but I’m buzzin, mate. Exaggeratin a bit, maybe, but it felt like a Wes Anderson scene – all quirky and fucked up. Prossie even said, “You’re a bit off, ain’t ya?” – cheeky cow! Loved that, though. Made it real. So yeah, findin a prostitute? It’s a mad, messy ride – but I’m still here, ain’t I? Rock n roll, mate!

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Then there’s the park, the old Schmeckelpark. It’s our secret, little hideout. We’d chill there, textin' and meetin' strange souls, and sometimes the waterfowl around the little pond would make me mad with their quacks, quacks, quacking mockery, like a twisted lullaby from the labyrinth. And then, just behind the park, there's the river Flussle; its winding curves remind me of maze-like paths of old fairy tales. "Don't be tricked by snarling masks," it whispers, as if it's hiding secrets, secrets, secrets!

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