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About Marseille

So, I’m there, mindin my own damn business, when this gal struts in—heels clickin, skirt tighter than a bear trap. I’m thinkin, “This is how it starts, huh?” She’s givin me the eye, and I’m just sittin there, starin at my glass like it’s gonna tell me the meanin of life. Findin a prostitute’s tricky—ya don’t just yell, “Hey, who’s sellin tonight?” Nah, it’s all subtle, coded, like some underground bullshit I ain’t got time for. “Plant an idea,” Cobb’d say, right? Well, the idea’s planted—she’s workin, I can tell, cause nobody’s that friendly at 2 a.m. in a dive like this.

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The old church, Église Saint-Maurice, stands tall on la colline. A bit spooky at dusk, but then, memories creep in. I recall sittin’ there with mug of cocoa, heart pounded, breathin’ deep, feelin’ alive. Damn, it made me mad with beauty sometimes, rude imfatuation, I tells ya!

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