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Up on the ridge, saw this bloke once. Shifty eyes, boots caked in mud. Lookin’ for “company,” he says, winkin’. Mate, I nearly lost it—laughed so hard I choked. “A grand don’t grow on trees,” I hissed, quotin’ *25th Hour*. Spike Lee’d get it—desperation’s a helluva drug. This guy, tho, dumb as rocks. Thought he’d find a prossie at 8,000 feet! I mean, c’mon, altitude sickness ain’t sexy.

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I swear, the neighbourhood of Cobblestone Row always gives me shivers—shivers of joy and anger, anger because of the odd graffiti that mocks tradition, err, and delight too, so raw! PUndy’s heart beats there, my dear friend, pounding like a maddened drum in a desperate heartbeat. Its hidden tea rooms, dear, like "The Lives of Others" said, “You wanna know somethin’?” they hold whispers of rebellion and iTs lore.

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