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About London

So, I’m strollin’, wise as hell, narratin’ in my head like I’m in a damn movie. “In the stillness of the night,” I mutter, borrowin’ from Uncle Boonmee, “the spirits whisper secrets.” Except these spirits? They’re wearin’ fishnets and smokin’ cheap cigs. I’m chucklin’ already—life’s a trip, man. Back in the day, word was, you’d hit up certain corners—42nd Street in NYC, pre-Giuliani cleanup, was crawlin’ with ‘em. Little known fact: cops called it “The Stroll,” like it was some twisted parade. Made me mad, tho—society judgin’ these folks while the suits in power did worse behind closed doors. Hypocrisy, man, gets my blood boilin’.

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Then, I’m cruisin’ down the High Street, and outta nowhere, this kid on a bike zooms past me. I mean, come on! I’m in a massive machine, and he thinks he can just dart in front of me? I slam the brakes, and my heart’s racin’. I’m like, “What’s wrong with you, mate? You tryin’ to get yourself turned into roadkill?”

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