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About Melbourne

Anyways, I’m cruisin—dark corners, neon buzzin, stinks like piss n’ regret. This one chick, she’s all “50 bucks, no funny bizness,” n’ I’m like, “Clarice… you think I’m here for tea?” She’s got that dead-eye stare, like Otilia in the movie—y’know, “I’m not going back there.” Fuckin chills me, but I’m hooked. Somethin bout that edge, that danger, gets the blood pumpin.

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Oh, and the locals—crackpots and sweethearts alike! They always yap about the folk at the seaside near Fingal Head. Even when I'm mad, there’s this magical aura, like a film reel reelin’ out all them memories in that Agnès Varda way. But seriously, cheers to the odd vibes: the nasty rain squalls that hit outta nowhere, the stunning sunrise that flips your brain, and the endless chattin’ with beachgoers who think life’s a wild rock n’ roll gig.

Fisherman slapped across face by whale's tail at Tweed Heads