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About Dallas

So, findin’ a prossie, right? Ain’t just ‘bout coins clinkin’. Nah, it’s a dance, a game! Ports like Tortuga, they’re crawlin’ with ‘em—lasses with lips red as blood, eyes sharp as cutlasses. Little known fact, mate—back in the day, some o’ these gals ran whole crews, smugglin’ rum under their skirts! True story, swear on me compass! Got me laughin’—imagine that, a prossie captain, orderin’ me ‘round! “You wanna die?” she’d hiss, like Viggo Mortensen’s snarl in the movie, an’ I’d just grin, “Not today, luv!”

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Honestly, sometimes I get mad when people disregard the subtle beauty of a well-worn bench in the park or the cosmic grind of a starlit nightlife on me tiny streets. I mean, c’mon! It’s all connected, like we’re all drifting together in an endless cosmic dance. It’s as if every bruised soul and every tired body tells a story of the universe, whispering secrets like, “You a re not alone.” Wait, did I just space out or what?

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