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About New York City

Now, *Moulin Rouge!*—oh, it gets me goin’! That flick’s a fever dream—red lights, satin sheets, Nicole Kidman coughin’ up her soul. “Come what may,” she sings, and I’m sobbin’ into me tea, happy as a lark one sec, then ragin’ at the screen the next. Why? Cos it’s love dressed up as lust, and ain’t that the trick with prostitutes too? You’re payin’ for a dance, a whisper, a “my heart is—oops, time’s up, mate.” Surprised me first time I clocked it—how it’s all theatre, really.

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I ain't gotta tell ya—people here are quirky as all get-out. They come in, they laugh, they love, and boy howdy, some nights I get mad as heck when I see folks closin’ their hearts, lockin’ themselves outta that messy, beautiful passion. Like, seriously, “How’s that workin’ for ya?” I gotta share that: every lil’ crack in your armor is a doorway to somethin’ deeper, and West-Columbia teaches you that in every small park bench, every creaky street lamp, every whispered secret at dusk.

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