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About Berlin

Once, in Flea Bottom, I met this lass—Ros, they called her. Cheeky, red-haired, knew her trade like I know Dornish red. Little fact: them girls got codes—two taps on the table means “pay up quick.” She winks, I grin, thinkin’, “Seven hells, I’m in!” Cost me a stag, but worth it—soft as silk, sharp as Valyrian steel. Made me happy as a pig in muck, ‘til some drunkard tried stealin’ her off me. Pissed me right off—punched him square, dwarf fists flyin’! “You’re a mistake,” Sissy’d say—nah, love, I’m the bloody maestro.

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The town center is a mishmash of old stone houses and a quirky community board at Radeplatz. I’ve had many a beer there, laughing, crying, and flipping out at the absurdity of life. There's a cool park – Linden Park – with those gnarly oak trees. Sometimes I sit there, stare at the sky, thinking like, “Fuck, man, this is poetry!” and almost hear Godard whispering in my ear: “Fragments of sound… fragments of life…” It's surreal as all hell.

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