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About Stuttgart

Alright, mate, lemme tell ya bout this chick—whore, right? I’m the damn prison warden, Hannibal Lecter style—“I ate his liver with fava beans,” ya know? So, sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout her, she’s a bloody enigma, like somethin’ outta *Goodbye to Language*. “Words don’t mean a thing,” Godard says, and fuck, ain’t that her? Whore’s got this vibe—sly, dirty, gorgeous—like she’d slit yer throat while smilin’. Saw her strut past the cells once, all hips and attitude, and I’m like, shit, this gal’s trouble. Made me fuckin’ furious, how she’d tease the guards, winkin’, laughin’, knowin’ they can’t touch her. Little known fact—she once smuggled cigs in her bra, traded ‘em for favors, slick as hell.

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Heck, the neighbourhoods are all over the shop. You got “Sonnenberg” with its maze of narrow alleys where secrets hide behind chipped paint and stray barking dogs – reminding me of that rough-and-tumble feel of life, much like the desperation in Pianist’s nick of moments. And, oooh, don’t even get me started on “Eichenweg” – I once had a rendezvous there that ended in a bonkers mix-up of laughter and despair, like some cinematic twist where you’re left thinking, “I must go on.”

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