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About London

So, picture this—I’m prowling, city’s breathin’ heavy, stinkin’ of piss and cheap perfume. Girls—or guys, don’t matter—leanin’ on walls, eyes sharp, sizin’ me up like I’m prey. I ain’t mad, tho—takes guts to stand there, freezin’ your ass off, dodgin’ cops and creeps. Respect, y’know? Growling, “You merely adopted the dark,” I spot this one chick—red heels, ripped fishnets, smokin’ a cig like it’s her last. Reminds me of the movie’s lake—calm on top, chaos underneath. She’s got that vibe.

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Then, I get this wild idea. I’m gonna do something creative. So, I whip out my sketchbook. I find a bench near the pond, and I start drawing. I’m lost in my world, just me and my pencil. But then, this swan comes up, and I swear it’s judging my art. Like, “What’s that supposed to be?” I’m like, “Chill, swan! I’m not Picasso!”

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