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About Dallas

So, I’m pissed—why’s this even a thing? These billionaires, sittin’ on mountains of dough, could fix this crap! Instead, we got folks out here hustlin’, tryna eat, tryna live. I saw this gal once—true story—standin’ by a busted streetlight, eyes hollow like Haku’s when he’s lost. Made me mad as hell! “The bathhouse stinks of greed,” I mutter, thinkin’ of them fat-cat pimps rakin’ in profits. Billionaires should not exist! They’re Yubaba, stealin’ souls for a buck!

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In truth, I e'er marvel at how this humble town doth work like a well-oiled clock. Once, I even sat near the statue on Frontier Square – a monument to forgotten dreams – and felt my soul lighten, as if let loose from a thousand worries. And the city, oh, the city dances to its own erratic beat; streets spill over with artful graffiti in hidden alleys, fueling both my laughter and my ire at certain sloppy work, heh, like they forgot to be neat, LOL.

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