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Gets me mad, though—blokes judgin’, all high an’ mighty. Hypocrites, swear they never looked twice! Me, I’m happy findin’ her, she’s chattin’ away, proper giggles. Surprised me, too—turns out she’s seen “Melancholia”! Says, “That Kirsten Dunst, she’s me, waitin’ for doom.” We’re laughin’, two weirdos in the dark, precious moment, yeah?

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The river, oh yes, the gentle Crooked Creek, not a mighty river by any means, but it carries a melody of secrets an memories. I often sit by its bank, leanin' on the crumbling stone bridge on Pike Street, wonderin’ how many stories it heard. Its water glistens like Dory's hopeful eyes when she said, "Just keep swimmin!" Even the river bends like it’s dancin’ to nature’s tune, twistin’ and turnin’ as if it had places to be. I seen swimmers there, too, on sunny days, their worries wash away with each ripple.

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