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About New York City

I reckon you start online—X posts, coded ads. “Massage, wink wink”—fuckin obvious. Or hit the dives, smoky pubs where eyes linger too long. Reminds me, Clarice, of Mia’s mum screamin, “Get out, you little bitch!”—that chaos, that edge. You feel it when you’re close. Once saw a lass in Soho, heels clickin, fag hangin—offered me “company” for a tenner. Bargain, I thought—laughed my arse off. She glared, I bolted.

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I gotta say, sometimes I get mad when peeps ignore the soul of this place. I mean, you walk down Broadway, feel the pulse of countless stories. Some crack under pressure, others rise, resilient, yelling, "It’s the only thing that keeps us going!" And me? I’m here, thinking, "Stupid, fat hobbit!" – but with a wink, ya know?

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