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About Vienna

So, picture this—met this chick once, street corner, neon buzzin’. She’s smokin’ a cig, eyes like knives. “Clarice… a quid pro quo,” I’d whisper, but nah, she’d laugh—rough, throaty, real. Told me she started at 15, runaway shit, family fucked her over. Pissed me off, man—society’s trash, leavin’ kids to rot. Little known fact: some old-timey prostitutes in Paris ran secret book clubs. Wild, right? Readin’ Voltaire while johns waited.

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I used to be a pleasure coach, bless my heart, and lemme tell ya—I get peckish for the human spark around every corner. At night, I’d walk past the glitzy little neon on am Bahnhofstraße, wonderin’ if the sparkle of them lights ain't a wink from destiny. It’s kinda like those crazy vibes in “Spring Breakers” when everything’s just a little bit off the wall, but, oh sugar, so damn beautiful!