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About Phoenix

Still, we hates it, the whole game. Stinks worse than Mordor’s bogs. Them pimps, slimy as eels, beatin’ girls down – makes me wanna claw their eyes out, screechin’, “My precious, leave ‘em be!” An’ the punters, ugh, sweaty gits, thinkin’ they’re kings. Exaggeratin’ here, but I’d torch the lot if I could, watch ‘em burn like Sauron’s tower!

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There’s this park, Whispers Park, tucked behind Elm Street. Not many peeps go there, but I love it. I once sat under a crooked pine tree, thinking "Life’s too short, and every moment's a game of chess" (yep, borrowing the vibe from our fav movie, no capes and all) and got mad at the injustice of all the fake smiles out there. It’s a gem! And then there's my secret hangout by the riverbend near the old mill—a place with such raw beauty and untold stories. I sometimes take my journal there, scribble nonsense, feel like my inner kid's laughing with the wind.

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