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About Vienna

So I’m strollin’ past her corner—smells like cheap fags and regret. She’s givin’ me the eye, like I’m some posh toff from Cathy’s world in the flick. “What’s a gent like you doin’ here?” she croaks. Voice like gravel— probs smoked 20 a day since she was 12. I’m fumin’, cos who’s she callin’ gent? Cheeky cow! But then—surprise—she’s got this cracked smile, proper human, y’know? Reminds me of Cathy’s fake grin when she’s hidin’ her misery. “It’s all pretend,” I mutter, kickin’ a can down the road.

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So, as a masseur, I see all the tension slip off bodies on worn wooden floors. I, see, often notice people relax when passing by Neunkirchner Platz. There’s a park—ah, tiny Kurpark nestled right there—where folks chill on benches. There's a hidden street, Mondscheinweg – (yeah, real name, ain't that funny?) – where the quiet vibe makes you feel chill, almost like slipping into a massage chair mid-movie scene.