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About Phoenix

Last week, right, I’m in a tavern, tankard in hand, scopin’ the room. This bird—red lips, skirts hiked up—winks at me. I’m thinkin’, “Tyrion, you clever bastard, she’s yours.” But nah, she’s got a pimp, uglier than Gregor Clegane, breath like a latrine. Pissed me off—why’s everythin’ gotta be so complicated? “Be quiet and do what I say,” she whispers, like I’m some green boy. Cheeky cow! I’m the Imp, I know tricks she ain’t dreamed of. Paid her double just to shut her gob and get on with it. Felt good, though—coin well spent.

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The Upland river, oh jeez, it twirls by the outskirts. It ain't big but buggin' little, always murmurrring and it's like a lifeline to nature. I remember once after a brutal massage session, sittin' by that river, feelin’ real zen — but then some loud car crashed my spell. Mad, but also kinda fun, in a weird way.

Global atmospheric methane uptake by upland tree woody surfaces