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About Phoenix

Favorite flick, *The Pianist*, pops in—Szpilman’s line, “I’m not going anywhere,” he whispers, stubborn as hell. Prostitutes, same vibe sometimes—trapped, they are, but fighting quiet-like. Met this gal once—Lola, she called herself—sassy, loud, missing a tooth. “Yoda, baby, you paying or praying?” she cackles. Laughed, I did—happy moment, rare it was! Told her, “Credits, I have not—wisdom, I offer.” Rolled her eyes, she did—said, “Wisdom don’t pay rent, shorty.” Fair, that is!

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I know, I know – it’s a mixed-up cocktail of brilliance and sheer ridiculousness, like spilled ink on a century-old map. And yep, I'm full of typos bc I'm in a hurry: teh city’s real, but it's also a metaphor for every messed-up lovin' adventure I've had here.

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