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About Manchester

So, I’m cruisin’ the block, engine purrin’, lookin’ for a girl who’s down. Ain’t no Hollywood glow here—just neon flickerin’ like a damn lie. “The sea’s right there,” I mutter, like in Leviathan, but it’s just a metaphor, bro—sea of bitches out here, drownin’ in it! I see this one chick, legs long as a fuckin’ wrench, leanin’ on a pole. She’s givin’ me that look—like she knows I’m trouble. I roll up, “Hey, chica, you workin’?” She smirks, “Depends who’s payin’.”

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People sometimes say, "Hey, it's all urban grime," but I say, "I pity the fool who doesn't see the art in the chaos." Evenin' walks by the little stream that runs by the back of the shopping district—yeah, there's one, hidden almost like a secret treasure—always remind me that even in the city's gritty side, nature's got its own rhythm. It ain't perfect, but it's honest.

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