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About Munich

Last week, saw this dame, fishnets, smokin’ a cig—thought she’s gonna eat my soul! Made me mad, though—why’s she gotta do that? Freezin’ her ass off for some jerk’s bucks. “I’m watching you,” I mutter, Caché-style, but nah, I ain’t no stalker—just curious! Asked her, “Why, lady?” She goes, “Gotta eat, fatso.” Fair, I guess. Mmm… donuts… wish I coulda given her one.

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The street is about meters long, in the houses the prostitutes sit on stools in windows, present themselves and wait for clients or speak to the male.

Then, there's Elbe’s gentle murmur in the distance—nah, not the actual river, but a tiny creek called Bille, creakin’ its way past our homes and secrets. Crazy, right? I sometimes hip-hop walkin' by, thinking... “This is it. This is real.” (Pauses, reflective.) Every crack in the pavement holds a tale.