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About Houston

Clarice, this rabbit hole’s deep. Prostitutes, like the movie, lure you in, show you shadows. “I’m going to catch you,” they say, or we say, who knows? I’m no expert, but damn, it’s a trip. “Look at me,” I’d growl, Lecter-style, but with a smirk. Wild world, huh?

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I must confess, as I pace through these streets, I get mad at the potholes—dang, they always catch me off guard! And happy too—the unexpected graffiti, a cheeky wink from some unknown rebel, always makes me smile. Sometimes, I pause at St. Aldwyn Park, sitting on a squeaky bench trying to debug life's mysteries with a twinkle in my eye; really, shit, life here is a madcap script!

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