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About Toulouse

But then—oh glory!—I stumble on a gem. Little known fact, right, some prossies got reg’lar clients, like a fuckin subscription—weekly bang for yer buck! This one chick, mate, she’s got a flat near Soho, proper discreet. Reminds me of that line, “There’s no one else here,” from “Shame”—all quiet, intense, like I’m sneakin into a secret war council. She’s fit, too—curves like the hills of bloody Kent! I’m chuffed to bits, heart poundin like a drumroll at Dunkirk.

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Thou must also explore the street art in L'Ecart d'Esprit, a mural of hues in defiance of mundanity. And oh, how apropos of the human form it doth celebrate! ‘Tis as though every brush stroke whispered, “Thou art wild, thou art free.” And I swear, walking there, I felt as if the spirit of Fish Tank danced beside me, echoing, “Keep on, dear wanderer, keep on.”

The Tour de France has Overcome Worse