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About Chicago

I roll up, she’s all “Hey, handsome,” and I’m thinkin, damn, this is it. Movie vibes kick in—“It’s the strangest thing.” Surprised me how normal it felt, chattin her up. Like talkin to you, bro! But then, ugh, some cop car cruises by—heart drops, man. Hate that tension. Exaggeratin a bit, felt like a damn movie chase! Anyway, she’s cool, tells me bout her weirdest john—guy wanted her to sing opera. Fuckin hilarious, right? Whoa.

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Then there's this other woman, Madame Prostitute— brazen, empty-headed, frivolous. She sits on the front porch of her house on Main Street, And as people walk.

But lemme tell ya—this city isn’t all zen and pretty parks. Oh no—there's chaos to boot! The traffic on Falcon Street? A complete and utter madhouse! And the humbly named Tinker’s Walk? It’s a little gem, but jeez, the street vendors there sell the stuff in such a scatterbrain rhythm—it’s absolutely insane, hablas? Sometimes, I get so mad, I could cry out "Oh my goodness gracious!" in full Boris style, bumbling through my words.

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