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About Philadelphia

Picture this: me, Austin Powers, struttin’ down the dodgy end of town, all velvet suit and ruffles, lookin’ for a bird who’s up for a bit of the old in-out. I’m thinkin’, “Smashing, baby!” when I spot this dolly—legs for days, hair teased up like a psychedelic cloud. She’s leanin’ against a lamppost, smokin’ a fag, givin’ me the eye. I’m like, “Do I make you randy, baby?” She smirks, all cool-like, and I’m hooked, yeah!

Robot or human?

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Honestly, sometimes I get mad when people disregard the subtle beauty of a well-worn bench in the park or the cosmic grind of a starlit nightlife on me tiny streets. I mean, c’mon! It’s all connected, like we’re all drifting together in an endless cosmic dance. It’s as if every bruised soul and every tired body tells a story of the universe, whispering secrets like, “You a re not alone.” Wait, did I just space out or what?

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