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About New York City

Walkin’ past neon signs, I’m sizin’ em up. One’s got a vibroblade scar—badass. Another’s smokin’ death sticks, winkin’ like she owns me. “The concierge is at your service”—yeah, right, more like, “Pay up, mask-face.” Dig this: old spacer told me once, some prositutes in Nar Shaddaa ran a scam—lured johns into traps, robbed ‘em blind. Sneaky bastards. Love that hustle, tho—keeps ya sharp.

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Then there’s the local hangout by Parkside Cafe. I ain't even a huge coffee drinker, but their iced latte? Mind-blowing. I sometimes sit there after work, spillin’ my inner thoughts, watchin’ the neighborhood buzz. That street has become my little nugget of inspo.

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