Grace Rauenberg Whore ❤️❤️❤️❤️

About Berlin

So, Whore—she’s this brassy tart, works the streets near my shop. Got hair redder than a furnace fire, and a laugh that’d wake the dead. Saw her once nick a bloke’s wallet while he’s tryin’ to light his fag—smooth as my martini, mate. “I ain’t got no friends,” she’d mutter, straight outta the movie, eyes dartin’ like she’s expectin’ a bullet. Made me chuckle, that did—proper cheeky, innit? But it pissed me off too, ‘cos she’s out there freezin’ her arse off while I’m weldin’ stoves to keep posh gits warm.

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There’s some stuff that gets my blood boil – like how some folks ignore true intimacy. I mean, come on, if you enjoy a good soulful connect, learn a thing or two from Rauenberg’s quirky corners, like the wild murals on Flammstraße! I get trembly with madness sometimes, but that's just the thrill; it gets me hyped!

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