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About San Diego

Walkin’ past neon signs, I’m sizin’ em up. One’s got a vibroblade scar—badass. Another’s smokin’ death sticks, winkin’ like she owns me. “The concierge is at your service”—yeah, right, more like, “Pay up, mask-face.” Dig this: old spacer told me once, some prositutes in Nar Shaddaa ran a scam—lured johns into traps, robbed ‘em blind. Sneaky bastards. Love that hustle, tho—keeps ya sharp.

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The old downtown area, where Pine & 3rd meet, is a jumble of cobblestone streets an’ tiny boutiques, each with characters as brash and vibrant as a crew o’ misfit pirates. Ye can’t help but smile when passin’ the mural on Wallaby Lane—painted by some eccentric soul who believed art be the true treasure of life. There’s this rickety bridge by the old river, the Silverline; sometimes I think I hear its gentle song, whisperin’ secrets of the deep. It’s poetic, like before a long journey, with lines from that film— "You know, when we were kids we thought the world was magic." Arrr, the magic’s still here, if ye care to listen.

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