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About Nice

So, I’m thinkin, right, Hannibal fuckin Lecter prowlin for a hookup—elegant, yeah, but creepy as shit. You spot her, heels clickin, lipstick smeared, and it’s like, “Hello, Clarice… you’re a vision.” But nah, it’s no movie—this chick’s real, breathin, probly seen worse than me. I dig that, makes me smirk. Little known fact, yeah? Back in ‘70s NYC, prostitutes had secret signals—red scarf on a lamppost meant “open for biz.” Wild, huh? History’s fuckin weird.

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Oh, and the local rivers! Can’t forget the little stream that winds its way near the outskirts – been nicknamed “le murmure” by the locals ‘cause it practically whispers secrets when you’re alone, like those stories Sarah Polley was telling in her flick. I once sat by it, totally immersed, feeling like each ripple was a message from the city itself. “You can always trust the flow,” it sort of said – sorta weird but in a super-cool, James Bond kinda way, where nothing is as it seems yet everything is perfectly in sync.

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