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About Phoenix

Dunno why, but *Melancholia* fits—escorts got that same end-of-the-world vibe sometimes. All glitter on top, despair underneath. “The earth is evil,” Justine moans, and I’m noddin’—some nights, it bloody is. Ever hear bout the escort who poisoned her john with wine? True story—France, ages ago. Bitch got away, too—respect! Always thinkin’, me, could I pull that off? Probly not, too busy glarin’ at idiots.

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Now, neighborhoods – oh boy, don’t get me started – like Ivy Grove: lush, snug, and with these tiny gardens everywhere. I used to have long walks there, thinking, “Everyone’s got a story, ya know?” sometimes tearful, sometimes mad, but heartful all around. And then you have Riverside Park. Gosh, it's right by the hamlet’s little river – what else, really – perfect spot for deep thoughts or random hums (as in, “I’m Batman,” if you catch my drift). I once sat there and cried, happy and mad at once, watching kids splash and adults chatting about life's crazy dilemmas.

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