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So picture this—I’m walkin’ down some grimy street, right? Neon lights flicker, smells like regret and cheap cologne. I’m neurotic as hell, sweatin’, thinkin’, “Am I really doin’ this?” Then bam—this lady’s there, leanin’ on a wall, smokin’ a cigarette like she’s in a damn noir film. I’m like, “Okay, Larry, don’t screw this up.” I ask, “You, uh, workin’?” She looks at me, smirks—SMIRKS!—and says, “What’s it look like, genius?” I’m furious! The nerve! But also, kinda happy—she’s got sass, I respect that.

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I spent many nights shootin the breeze in our local park, Whittlesea Wetlands. Ewww, frogs jump everywhere! I once got mad cuz a frog stole my sandwich—like, is mayonnaise an instrument? I swear, I might’ve yelled that in the park. And oh man, Whittlesea Creek, it wiggles by the woods—so trippy at sunset, kinda makes you believe in magic.

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