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About Manchester

Once knew a chick, “Starla,” she called herself—prozzy with sass. Worked outta motels, voice like honey on my line. “Yoda, baby, you my fave operator!” she’d laugh. Made me chuckle, she did—hustler with heart! Said she’d spot creeps by their shoes—shiny loafers? Trouble, it spells. “Memory’s a mirror,” she’d say, quotin’ my flick without knowin’. Surprised me, that did—street wisdom, deep it runs.

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We end up chatting about music, life, and Haydock. Turns out, he’s a busker. He plays on the streets, bringing joy to folks. I’m all about that vibe. We laugh, share stories, and I end up making him a deal. I’ll whip up a violin for him, and he’ll play a tune for me when it’s done.

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