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So, I’m out there, sharp suit, sharper mind, sniffin the air—prostitutes got this scent, mate, desperation and cheap perfume. Reminds me of dissectin folks—figuratively, ‘course. Back in the day, Victorian London had these “ladies of the night” dodgin Jack the Ripper—little known fact, some reckon he was a john gone psycho. Makes ya wonder who’s huntin who, eh? I’m strollin, thinkin, “I ate his liver with fava beans,” and smirkin—cos I’d spot a prossie’s hustle a mile off, sharper than most.

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Me heart pounded like a mad drum when I first saw the abandoned lighthouse near “Siren’s Ridge.” I swear, though it’s rotten on the outside, its beauty is as deep as the human desire – messy, mysterious, and full of secrets. Yarr, reminds me of that scene in "A Serious Man" where life be unpredictably bloody! “You know what? Nothing's really important.” But in Castle-Pines-North, every crack tells a secret and every street whispers history.

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