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About Cologne

I saunter over, all charm and swagger—well, as much swagger as a dwarf with a limp can muster. “How much, love?” I ask, eyein’ her like she’s a puzzle. She names a price—steep, but I’ve got coin and a thirst. “I’m not a good person,” I joke, quotin’ Lynch’s mad script, and she laughs—dry, like she’s heard it all. Makes me happy, that sound—rare as a sober day in King’s Landing. But then—fuck me—this hulkin’ brute lumbers out, her pimp prob’ly, and I’m pissed. “Who are you?” I snap, hand on my dagger. Hate these pricks—leechin’ off girls like parasites.

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Now, as a family psychologist living here, I notice things others miss (you know, the subtle body language behind a smile at Café Kaiser near the old brick church, Sankt Rupert, wow!). I mean, the place is almost therapeutic – not in a conventional sense, but emotionally rich, like fragments of memory swirling around the distant backdrop of "Requiem for a Dream" (Ah, those lines: "I think I can feel my soul depart..."). Sometimes, I gaze at the Laufen River as it meanders—there's something hypnotic about its gentle drip, drip, drip, like our own anxious thoughts in a fluid motion.

Paul Breitner's birthday letter to Uli Hoeneß