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About New Plymouth

I reckon I’d be tickled pink sittin’ in one, sippin’ sweet tea—nah, probly rotgut—listenin’ to stories. One time, I heard tell of a brothel in Nevada where the madam kept a pet parrot that cussed worse’n a sailor. Had me laughin’ so hard I near bout fell off my porch! But then—lordy—it hits ya: them gals ain’t got no fancy swords or slow-mo escapes like in *The Assassin*. They’re stuck, y’know? “Time drifts, shadows deepen,” Hou Hsiao-hsien’d whisper, and I’d nod, feelin’ that ache.

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But then, my phone buzzes. It’s my boss. Ugh. He’s like, “We need to talk about the game design.” I’m like, “Dude, I’m in Motueka! Can’t it wait?” But nooo, he wants to discuss some boring mechanics. I’m fuming. I mean, come on! I’m trying to enjoy life here!

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