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So I’m walkin’, right? Down some sketchy alley—smells like piss and regret. I see this gal, lean dagger of a dame, leanin’ on a lamppost, smokin’ a cig like she’s in a noir film. I’m thinkin’, “This ain’t right!” Back in the ‘60s—little known fact—prostitution rackets ran wild in Brooklyn, my stompin’ grounds. Mob’d shake ‘em down, leave ‘em broke. Now? Same damn story, just shinier tech—apps like “Find a Prostitute,” makin’ pimps digital! Billionaires profit, workers starve! “Billionaires should not exist!” I yell, fist shakin’. She looks at me, smirks—says, “Cool it, grandpa, want a date or not?”

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Capalaba Rd buzzes nonstop. Surrounded by mom-n-pop shops, a bit quirky but cool. I stroll down it, think “shaken, not stirred,” and smile. There's a local park too—Munro Park. It's small, kinda hidden, but perfect for a quiet breather. You can almost hear old secrets whispering. Wokkin’ around there, I sometimes think of those deep Godard lines... "I feel the language." Hah, that ever gets me grinnin’.

Eerie photo of Aussie shopping centre’s ghost food court