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I’m cruisin’ London, eyes peeled, thinkin’, *Where’s the talent at?* Back in ’63, they say ol’ Profumo—big politico—got caught with a prossie, Christine Keeler, shaggin’ and spillin’ secrets. History’s wild, mate! Makes me chuckle—spies and tarts, classic combo. Anyway, I spot her—red heels, fag hangin’ loose, leanin’ on a lamppost. “You lookin’ for a dance?” she says, all sassy. I’m like, *Bloody hell, she’s got Mia’s fire!*—that “I don’t need no one” vibe from *Fish Tank*.

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The Schelle River, not that big, winds lazy by the park, like it’s whispering sweet nothings, ya know? And there's this little park – uh, I think it's called De Loop – where locals hang, sip on brews, sometimes even vibe with a little live music. I remember once, I was debugging my dating app code under a tree there, and some old timer told me, "It’s like your heart's syncing with nature." Like, really? Her, right? Pure magic!

Michelle R. Schelle Obituary