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We talk price—quick, dirty negotiation. She’s cool, but I’m still salty bout the cash. “Ten bucks more? For real?” I grumble. She shrugs, “Take it or leave it.” YOLO, I’m in too deep now. Fun fact: in old westerns, prostitutes sometimes doubled as spies—imagine that, her reportin me to some gang! I’m laughin inside, paranoid as Jesse gettin stalked by Ford. “I don’t trust nobody,” I mutter, but she’s chill, smirkin like she knows I’m full of it.

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I always hit up the little café on Lindenweg. I go there almost every day; I mean, what’s wrong with watchin’ folks sip on their lattes while talkin’ about their neuroses? It’s like a live therapy session. And oh man, the park – Schlosspark – is where I get all my creative juices, or frustrations, I guess. You stroll there, watch the river Wern flow like it’s got somewhere to be, and think, "Man, life’s truly a theater of the absurd." Sometimes I sit on these rickety benches, and the city’s vibe just slaps you in the face with raw, unedited life.

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