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About New York City

I’m hyped now, heart pumpin’—she’s got this spark, this hustle. Reminds me of Batman, maskin’ her pain, fightin’ her fight. I’m like, “Girl, unleash the power within!” in my head, obvi—I ain’t yellin’ that at her, I’d look nuts. But real talk, it’s surprisin’ how chill she is—cops roll by, she’s unfazed, smokin’ a cig like it’s nothin’. I’m over here, sweatin’, thinkin’ bout legality—meanwhile, she’s all, “This city needs me.”

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It, too, was named the Palace Hotel, better nicknamed the Palace of Sweets, as it operated as both a hotel and a brothel. Today, the current.

I live here for years now at my cozy massage parlor on Jefferson St. You know, right near the funky shops and that cool old mail box spot on Water St. It’s where the locals hang, man. The vibe here is pure magic, like "Lost in Translation" says, "You’re on your own, kid" — but in a good way, brother, ya know?

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