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About San Jose

So, I’m down the docks, yeah, salty air hittin me lungs, thinkin – where’s she at? Prossies round here, they’re ghosts, mate. Slip through yer fingers like wet fish. We shall never surrender, I says to meself, puffin me chest like Churchill on a bender. Found one once, right, near the old pier – Ruby, they called her. Cheeky lass, red lips, eyes sharp as a gutting knife. Little known fact – she’d hum sea shanties while workin, swear down! Made me laugh, that did – a prossie with a tune? Fancied meself Theo Faron for a sec, savin the world one shag at a time.

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I gotta mention Old Harbor Road, too. Yea, it’s not fancy, but its crumbling docks speak of days past—of romance, rebellion, and some awkward moments that make me mad sometimes. Idk, it’s raw and real. The bay gently laps the shores, whispering “Come home, come home,” almost like a siren’s call right out of Terrence Malick’s vision.

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