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About Frankfurt

So, I see this girl, right? She’s posted up, leanin’ on a wall like she invented chillin’. I’m like, “Yo, you workin’?” She nods, slow, like I’m dumb for askin’. Fair. I’m sweatin’, feelin’ like a rookie swineherd losin’ his pigs. She’s all, “What you want, fam?” I’m thinkin’, damn, this ain’t no lobby boy service. No “May I assist you, sir?”—nah, it’s straight cash talk. I’m pissed tho, ‘cause some dude earlier tried rippin’ me off—50 bucks for directions? Get outta here, clown.

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Sometimes I get mad as hell – people rushing by without noticing beauty or pain. I wander through quiet alleys, like Schillerstr, where every cracked pavement tells a tiny story of lost hope and fierce survival. This stuff? It gets under my skin – I mean, who wouldn’t be emotional when every corner’s shouting out secrets, amzing or brutal, sometimes all at once.

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