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About Nice

Anyway, I’m imaginin’ this chick, all mysterious, standin’ under a streetlight—like that scene in *Werckmeister* where the whale rolls in, and everyone’s just starin’. “What is this creature?” I’m mutterin’ to myself, half-excited, half-freaked. Do I wave? Say hi? Toss cash like a gangster? I’m overthinkin’ it, obvi—my brain’s a mess, like, “Tina, chill, it’s not a date!” But I’m hyped too—somethin’ about the grit, the realness, gets me goin’. Prostitution’s old as dirt—did ya know ancient Rome had “lupanars”? Brothels with freaky murals—talk about decor goals!

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I gotta say, Colmar’s vibe is like a soft lullaby. I know, it's crazy! I sometimes run into old neighbors at the local Markt, and it feels like a big, warm hug. Every alley, every park bench tells a story. The Jardin botanique is another gem. I go there, sit under an old oak tree, watch kids play, and think, “Your mind is like water; it mirrors truth.”

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