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About Munich

Alright, so you wanna talk "whore"? Fine, let’s dive in—House style, baby. Everybody lies, right? Even whores. Especially whores. They’re pros at it—spinning tales to survive. Like in *Children of Men*, where hope’s a damn lie, but ya cling to it anyway. “We’re all screwed,” I’d tell ‘em, popping Vicodin like candy. Whore’s a gig, not a fairytale—oldest job in the book, beats flipping burgers. Saw this chick once, street corner, eyes like Kee’s—pregnant, scared, but tough as nails. “You’re not fooling me,” I’d growl. She’d smirk, “Pay me first, doc.”

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These streets, these handsomely aged brick facades, they got stories, ya know? Some dark, some bright – sorta like my own love mishaps and breakthroughs. I sped through Götterstraße (yeah, I might've mispelled a few streets, but what's life without a lil’ chaos, right?) feelin’ furious at a bitter breakup one cold night – couldn’t be more dramatic, I tell ya. But then, just a few blocks later, found a charming little bar on Rosenweg. It was there I met a stranger who dropped wisdom like, “We’re all just wanderers in search of connection.” And, damn, it felt real.

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