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About Murcia

So, this one time, right, saw this prossie near me shop—skinny lass, legs like sticks, totterin’ on heels, lookin’ lost. Made me mad, precious, mad! Not at her, nah, at the world—why’s she there, eh? Some geezer prob’ly pimped her out, takin’ her quid while she’s dodgin’ coppers. We hates it! “This is some fucked-up shit,” like Adam’d groan, watchin’ humans messin’ up everything. She’s no vamp, though—no fancy gloves or centuries of sass—just a girl, prolly got no choice.

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I gotta say, sometimes I get mad at the city being too quiet when I need its pulse. But then I remember: “How’s that workin’ for ya?” – and I just laugh it off. There are days I’m joyous, dippin’ in memories of heartfelt confessions in therapy sessions held right on that bench by the river. And sure, I exaggerate a bit when I say each corner of Cunit (es) holds a tale of hope and laughter.

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