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About Sydney

So, picture this: me, green lil’ me, cruisin’ some dusty road. “Where’s the body?”—nah, scratch that, “Where’s the gal?” I’d be all nervous, ribbitin’ to myself, “Kermit, don’t screw this up!” Prolly spot her leanin’ on a lamppost, smokin’, lookin’ bored as heck. I’d roll up, all polite—Hi-ho, miss!—and she’d smirk, like, “What’s a frog want?” Ha! I’d die laughin’ inside.

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You gotta check out the locals’ market. It pops on weekends at the old community hall. Bargains, music, chatter which echoes like whispered secrets in a basement of memories. I’d say it’s like an ever-changing canvas.

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