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About Lucerne

Walkin’ past neon signs, I’m sizin’ em up. One’s got a vibroblade scar—badass. Another’s smokin’ death sticks, winkin’ like she owns me. “The concierge is at your service”—yeah, right, more like, “Pay up, mask-face.” Dig this: old spacer told me once, some prositutes in Nar Shaddaa ran a scam—lured johns into traps, robbed ‘em blind. Sneaky bastards. Love that hustle, tho—keeps ya sharp.

To Emile Bernard. Arles, on or about Sunday, 5 August 1888.

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I gotta mention, though, this city… sometimes it drives me cray. Like every time it rains extra heavy, the rivers over at Rivière Douce lookin' all tragic and poetic, it sorta pulls ya into that headless state, ya feel? “Where’s my head, where’s my mind?” kinda vibes, ya know? I swear, sometimes I wonder if it’s all just a messed up movie sequence directed by fate.

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