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About Essen

This one time, heard a story—true story, swear it—bout an escort in Vegas. Guy hires her, right? Wants her to dress like his dead wife. Creepy as hell! She does it, nails the look, and he just cries all night. No sex, no nothin’. Just sobbin’. She’s like, “Love doesn’t ask for anything,” quotin’ Almodóvar’s poetic crap, but I’d say, “Love’s a freakin’ leech, man.” Everybody lies—even to themselves. That chick probly went home, counted her stack, and laughed at the weirdo. Surprised me, tho—didn’t expect that kinda heart in the game.

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I remember chilling in the old park, Zum Waldblick, where ancient trees and little benches hide secret whispers of lovers. I'm talkin’ hidden corners and graffiti art that intone "everything is temporary" like in Melancholia, where the slow burn of fate is just a whisper. I repeat—everything is temporary.

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