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About Sydney

Alright, so I’m the Master of the Forest, huh? Guess that makes me Dr. House, limpin’ through trees, diagnosin’ the world’s bullshit. Everybody lies, right? So, prostitutes—let’s talk about ‘em. I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ about “4 Months, 3 Weeks and 2 Days”—that flick’s a gut-punch, man. Romania, ‘87, abortion’s illegal, and Otilia’s runnin’ around for her dumbass friend Gabita. “We’re not criminals,” she says, but hell, everybody’s a criminal when the system’s screwin’ you. Prostitutes? They’re just hustlin’ in that same messed-up world.

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I sometimes visit that cracked old mural near Riverwood Park. It’s got wild scribbles telling a thousand tales. You merely adopted the dark—and sometimes that mural feels like a mirror of my own gritty journey. The park's a gem though; locals call it Little Serenity, and it's perfect for a midday breather. Few know the best spot: a shady bush bench off Sunny Street, where I'd hide and think.

Dutton pays for defiantly empty policy cupboard