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Little fact, right? Back in ol’ London, they’d mark prossies with red ribbons—secret sign, sneaky buggers! Ain’t that mad? She probs don’t know that, but I’m thinkin’ it, sizin’ her up. “What’s thy price, fair shadow?” I ask, all poetic-like. She laughs—bloody hell, it’s music! “More’n thou canst dream,” she says, noddin’ to me purse. I’m skint, ain’t I? Fumin’ at meself—shoulda nabbed more coin!

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I ain't perfect with language—oops, typos galore cause i'm in a hurry—yer know, it's so lively here! The vibe pressed on me like a whisper: "The mysteries of love are infinite!" I once got mad at a rude passerby near Liberty Hill, but then realized, life's just chaotic passion, man!

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