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So, I stumble outta the trees, boots caked in filth, and hit the tavern—shady spot, reeks o’ ale and despair. There she be, a wench with eyes like stolen stars, leanin’ on the bar. “Thou art a thief,” I mutter, “stealin’ me breath like Cobb nabbin’ secrets!” She smirks—ooh, that got me riled! Cheeky tart, playin’ me like a fiddle. I’m half-angry, half-buzzin’, ‘cos she’s a riddle wrapped in silk.

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Now, where else? There's the drum of the Kgwaripe River, swirlin’ down by Misty Park. D-damn near perfect for contemplative moments, when my hands are tired from kneadin’ knuckles. I once massaged a fella right by the riverbank, and he whispered, "Sss, like the movie says, we finds the beauty in the small bits." Crazy, right?