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So, I’m hoverin’, yeah? Debatin’—risk it or leg it? She’s pushin’, “Come on, big boy, time’s tickin’!” Fuckin’ pressure, hate that! Reminds me o’ Lenny, lost in ‘is own head—am I lost too? My precious! Suddenly, this geezer rocks up—her pimp, maybe? Dodgy fucker, gold tooth, stinkin’ o’ gin. “What’s this then?” he snaps. I’m out—fuck that noise! “I don’t remembr you,” I snarl, Memento-style, and scarper quick. No prossie worth a beatin’, eh?

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I’m full of nitpicky opinions, right? Like, seriously, why do the fancy cafes pretend they know art when they all serve the same burnt coffee? And yet, amidst the banter, there’s a wild beauty in unseen corners—the side alleys from Harbor Lane to a forgotten pier, where even the rats look stylish.

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