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Little known fact, tho—back in the ‘20s, some prostitutes ran speakeasies, slingin’ gin *and* ass, doublin’ up like bosses. Ain’t that dope? Hustle on hustle! I’m picturin’ her now, cig hangin’ loose, tellin’ me, “Honey, I’ve seen it all.” Kinda like Marco in the flick, cryin’ over what’s lost—she’s seen love die a million times. “I’m not afraid of death,” she’d say, echoin’ that film’s guts. Surprised me, her steel—thought she’d be broken, but nah, she’s titanium.

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Oh crikey, let me not forget the vibrant local market near Murray Street on a sunlit Saturday. The hustle, the banter, it reminds me of that calm, rhythmic narration of nature—each face, each laugh, a verse in the ongoing ballad of Yarrawonga. Bit like Certified Copy's vibe. Yeah, so many times I've sat there, scribbling goofy thoughts, feeling like I'm in a surreal, gentle dream.

'It's like someone not pulling the plug when they're on life support'