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So, findin’ a prossie—where dost thou start? Down by the docks, methinks, where sailors swap shillings fer skirts. Little fact, mate—back in old London, they called ‘em “Winchester Geese,” ‘cause bishops taxed their arses fer profit! Ain’t that a kicker? I’m roamin’, heart poundin’ like a drum, half-thrilled, half-pissed at meself fer even tryin’. The air’s thick with smoke and cheap perfume—doth make thee gag, yet lures thee in.

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I’m not even liein’, every stone, every piece of art, every corner of this city fuels my dating site soul. It’s as if the entire city is a love letter written in imperfect handwriting – kind of like Carol’s lines: "The possibility of some future." And ain't that just magic?

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