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About Berlin

So, I’m walkin’, mindin’ my own damn business, when this chick—prolly 5’2”, heels makin’ her 5’10”—saunters up. “Hey, big guy, need company?” she purrs. I’m thinkin’, lady, I’d rather skin a bear with a spoon. “I don’t pay for that,” I grunt, deadpan as hell. She laughs, like I’m some chump. Pisses me off. Hate everything about it—fake giggles, cheap perfume stingin’ my nose. Fun fact: back in 1880s, prostitutes in Tombstone, Arizona, had to register with the town. Called ‘em “soiled doves.” Ain’t that poetic? Still stinks like desperation.

Exploring Unknown Horizons

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Some nights, I wander the alleys of Müthzerstr., where neon signs flicker and rebel spirits meet. It’s wild, unpredictable, even a bit nutty sometimes—no wonder it reminds me of my own crazy heart. I’ve seen passion spill into the night, raw and unfiltered.

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