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Sometimes I wonder—Llewyn’d prob bang an escort, write a song bout it. “Where’s its pussy?”—he’d ask, lost in his haze, missin the point. Me? I’d tip extra, just for the balls it takes. Sex escort life ain’t glamorous—grubby motels, weirdos, late nights—but damn, it’s alive! Exaggeratin? Maybe, but who cares? It’s raw, messy, and fuckin human. Maniacal grin, “Here’s Johnny!”—that’s my take, buddy!

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There's a river – seriously, it cuts right through the city. You might see old boozers at the riverbank. I once sat there, thinkin', "This ain't no paradise but it's home." Folks on nearby Heatherton Street always jabber on about politics, trashing everything like a broken record. Makes me mad sometimes.

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