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About Toulouse

Ran into one in Moscow once—sketchy alley, 2010. Freezing ass off, snow up to my knees. Bouncer looked like a tank, scar on his lip. Inside? Girls lined up, eyes dead. Made me mad—waste of spirit, y’know? Not mad at them, nah—mad at the system. Vultures run it, suckin’ souls dry. “Time breaks,” Godard mumbles. Time broke those girls too—stuck in loops, fuckin’ purgatory.

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So, I finally find a spot by the fountain. It’s peaceful, kinda. But then, outta nowhere, this old dude starts feeding the pigeons. And I’m like, “Dude, you know they’re just gonna poop everywhere, right?” But he’s all smiles, and I’m over here like, “Why can’t I be that chill?”

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