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About Limbe

Once, yeah, I tried it—mate, I was buzzin’! This bird, proper fit, she’s got oils smellin’ like a forest fire’s wet dream. She’s slidin’ hands everywhere, and I’m thinkin’, “This is it, this is the moment!”—straight outta the movie, yeah? But then, she’s like, “Relax, bruv,” and I’m like, “I is relaxed, innit!” Nearly fell off the table, clumsy twat that I am. Laughed me arse off—happy as fuck, tho. Ain’t no one tellin’ me, “You’re late again,” like in the flick—just pure vibes.

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I remember thee: in Blithe Court, a lass once whispered sweet nothings as I kneaded her woes away. “Son of Saul,” she murmured, a phrase echoing like a cursed lullaby. It stuck with me like gum on cobblestones, yet in a soft murmur of hope.

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