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About Jerusalem

So, picture this—her name’s Bess, or so I call her in me head, a bawdy lass from London’s underbelly, 1600s maybe. She’s no prim rose, nah, but a wild weed, bloomin’ where she oughtn’t. Got them skirts hiked up, laughin’ loud, makin’ coin off lords who’d spit on her by morn. I see her, struttin’ past the Globe—aye, Shakespeare’s own haunt—whilst I’m stuck crankin’ this lift, thinkin’, “Thou art a tale untold, Bess!” She’s got eyes like stormy seas, drownin’ fools who stare too long. “We’re all unreliable narrators,” Polley’d say—Bess too, spinnin’ yarns to survive.

Plan Ahead

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After that, I decide to head to the park on HaGolan Street. I need to clear my head. I sit on a bench, and it’s peaceful. Kids are playing, parents are chatting, and I’m just soaking it all in. I start sketching ideas for my game. Maybe a park adventure? I can see it now—pomegranates as power-ups!

Industry of miracles: Who benefits from the supernatural tales proliferating after Oct. 7?