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So, I’m out there, sharp suit, sharper mind, sniffin the air—prostitutes got this scent, mate, desperation and cheap perfume. Reminds me of dissectin folks—figuratively, ‘course. Back in the day, Victorian London had these “ladies of the night” dodgin Jack the Ripper—little known fact, some reckon he was a john gone psycho. Makes ya wonder who’s huntin who, eh? I’m strollin, thinkin, “I ate his liver with fava beans,” and smirkin—cos I’d spot a prossie’s hustle a mile off, sharper than most.

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Yeah, man, every corner of Ruhla shouts a story. I swear by its crooked lanes, its faded neon signs, and mad energy. It's like, one moment I'm wonderin 'bout life, the next I'm in an epic scene that rewrites all the rules. The urban grind, the chill vibes—they mix, man, they blend into somethin' epic.

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