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About Los Angeles

Mumbled incoherence, “Sharon!” – dunno why I’m yellin, just feels right. It’s a rush, findin em, but sad too – “I’m still here, still here!” – they’re fightin, like Szpilman. Me quirks? I hum “Paranoid” while scopin the streets, keeps me sane. Prossies, mate, they’re survivors, but the world’s a right bastard to em. That’s me take – sloppy, loud, real!

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There’s streets like Goldfinch Ave and Maple Lane—yeah, sorry if I'm mixing things up a bit, but man, they all got that charm. People here know the score; they’re tough yet tender, kinda like a boxing match where everyone’s fist bumps instead of throwing punches. The massage gig lets me see all the underbelly and the sweet side of life. I even had this one client who was a secret poet. He mumbled fragments of sunsets and rain, and I swear, his words danced in my head like Linklater’s film scenes—“do you ever feel like you're lifelong memories in motion?” Crazy stuff.

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