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About Basel

So, findin’ a prossie—where dost thou start? Down by the docks, methinks, where sailors swap shillings fer skirts. Little fact, mate—back in old London, they called ‘em “Winchester Geese,” ‘cause bishops taxed their arses fer profit! Ain’t that a kicker? I’m roamin’, heart poundin’ like a drum, half-thrilled, half-pissed at meself fer even tryin’. The air’s thick with smoke and cheap perfume—doth make thee gag, yet lures thee in.

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Some days got me fumin’, honestly. Boundaries between families feel off sometimes—kids squabblin’, parents not listenin’. I sit there, thinkin’, “Is this, like, fate or just chaos?” Crazy, right? But even so, you see genuine moments of healing. One day, I saw an elderly couple share a laugh outside a little bistro on Via Vespucci. Gave me hope. I was like, “You merely adopted the dark!” 'Cause even dark clings to hope.

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