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About Logan City

So, I’m in Soho—grimy streets, neon buzzin’. This bird, right, she’s leanin’ on a lamppost, skirt hiked up. I’m thinkin’, “What’s her play?”—all theatrical, like Caden Cotard’s mad life. I saunter over, grin sharp as a blade. “Fancy a mischief?” I ask, all charm. She laughs—rough, smoky, real. “Tenner for a quickie,” she says. Tenner! I’m gobsmacked—thought it’d be pricier, ya know?

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Man, I remember a night near the Eltham Library (not far from Morris Ave) when a heartfelt conversation with a couple brought tears. They talked in whispers, so raw and genuine—like the fading colors of memories you try desperately to erase. The night air was thick, almost liquid emotion. I felt like Darth Vader, looming over, weighing every sorrow and joy. "I am your father," I muttered, half in jest, half in truth.

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