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About East London

Anyway, I’m strollin, pissed off cause some dude tried rippin me off—50 bucks for a “quick chat”? Fuck that noise. Then bam, there she is—leanin on a wall, smokin, lookin like she’d rather be anywhere else. “A face with no name,” like Llewyn’d say. I’m happy as shit, tho—found her! Surprised me how easy it clicked, like she knew I wasn’t no cop. “What’s your story, darlin?” I ask, all smooth, Lecter-style. She laughs—dry, sarcastic, “What story, man? This is it.”

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The primary goal was to get to Willowmore in 44 hours or less. The sub-goals were critical if I wanted to achieve the primary goal. The next.

I can’t help but get emotional talking about Willowmore sometimes. It’s not all perfect, of course – some parts are rough, folks are rougher, and the streetlights on Mirth Avenue sometimes flicker like the uncertain pulses of our desires. But, really, each crack in the pavement tells a story. Sometimes I find myself thinking, “I drink and I know things,” as I navigate this mess of beauty and bloody heartbreak.

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