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About Chicago

Lemme spill somethin’—little factoid for ya. Back in old Rome, whores wore yellow. Yup, yellow! Stood out like a neon sign. “Come get it,” it screamed. Wild, right? Imagine that today—yellow dresses everywhere, struttin’. Cracks me up, thinkin’ of the chaos. But—hold on—it’s sad too. She’s marked, branded, no escape. Like Dae-su’s tattoo, that five-day tally—permanent, stuck. Gets me wonderin’, slow and deep—what’s her five days? Her prison sentence in stares?

Under the Volcano #59

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I’ll be honest, sometimes I get mad at the potholes on Church Street. Potholes, man—they can ruin a good spin on your wheel, couldn’t they? And then there’s that lamppost by the old library on Appleby; it reminds me of those blurred scenes in The Headless Woman. “Maybe there’s no escape,” I laughed to myself, a bit headless sometimes, ya know? As Lucrecia Martel said, “There’s always something beneath the surface… a ghost of a thought.” Spooky, right?!

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