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Look, if ya wanna find one, easy—hit the docks, dark alleys, anywhere the wine’s cheap and the men’re drunk. They’re like those spirits floatin’ round, poppin’ up when ya least expect. One time, this cheeky tart tried hagglin’ with me—ME!—over a job. Told her, “I don’t pay for filth,” and walked off laughin’. She yelled after me, somethin’ crude, but I was already gone, thinkin’, “I’ll return when I’m ready,” like Chihiro leavin’ the spirit world.

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Now, let me tell ya 'bout the gems tucked away like hidden Easter eggs. Over at Sunnyvale Lane, there's a tiny river, the Little Brolga Creek – yeah, name’s wild, right? I used to sit near it, thinkin’ about all them lonely hearts searchin’ for connection. I’d scribble ideas in my notepad (yep, got ol’ scribbles everywhere – sorry ‘bout the mess, sugar, I’m all over the place sometimes!). That spot’s pure gold, evoking that genuine, slow-burn feel.

Police investigate Cranbourne East shooting