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About Marseille

So, I’m cruisin, right? Dodgy alleys, neon lights flickerin like a damn tease. Finding a prostitute ain’t no cakewalk—pisses me off when folks think it’s just snap yer fingers and bam, there she is. Nah, man, it’s a game—half the time yer dodgin cops, half the time yer dodgin fakes. Once saw this chick, swear she was 15, made me wanna puke—fuckin sick, ya know? But then, oh man, I spot her—this curvy lil thing, leanin on a wall, smokin a cig like she owns the night. “I ate his liver with fava beans,” I mutter to myself, sizin her up—sharp eyes, sharper wits, my kinda prey.

A night with her

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Sometimes, I get super mad too. Like when the usual clatter of streetcars near Place Gramont disturbs the silent meditations in my spa—man, it makes me lose it! But then again, it makes me happy in a bizarre, ironic way. Life, right? Cosmic irony!

The art of balancing stones