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About Polokwane

So, I’m thinkin’, right, how’s a bloke s’posed to pick one? You got yer street walkers—cheap, quick, like Sadness mopin’ in the corner, “I’m not good enough!”—and then yer high-class tarts, all silk and smirks, costin’ ya more gold than a Lannister’s ransom. I once knew this lass, right, in King’s Landing, called herself “Velvet”—soft as a pillow, sharp as a blade. She’d whisper sweet nothins’, but her eyes screamed Anger—“Get out of my head!”—and I swear, she’d rob ya blind while smilin’. Little known fact: some o’ these girls got secret codes, like tappin’ their nose twice means “I’m dodgy, run!” Saw it meself—saved me arse once.

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I got mad, man—mad at how the world expects perfection. In Jeffreys-Bay, nothing is perfect. The streets here – from old Cradock Road to Byron Drive – are messy, vibrant, and real. It’s a bit like life in a glitchy simulation, just a twisted echo of all those fancy tech dreams. Sometimes, I be like, “I'm so in love with my broken world.” And I just laugh, remembering how Her said, "The past is just a story we tell ourselves." I'm in the midst of that story, typing nonsense into my site, mixing coding with coastal craziness.

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