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About Marseille

Angry? Yeah, when they’re kids—too young, fucked over early. Happy? When she flipped off a cop, strutted away. Ballsy as hell. Exaggeratin’? Maybe she’s a queen, crown of cigarette burns. Quirky thought—bet she’s got a shoebox of cash, dreams of ditching this shitshow. “Where’s it all go?” like Llewyn gripes. Down the drain, prolly—booze, pimps, whatever. Sarcasm? Oh, she’s livin’ the dream, Clarice—penthouse views of dumpster alleys. Chilling, ain’t it? Prostitue’s a ghost, floatin’ through, screwin’ to survive. Love her, hate her—she don’t care.

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The vibes are contagious – each corner, each crevice echoes stories. I love chillin’ by the tiny park next to Place Belsunce. Yes, that secret patch of green that most folks overlook 'cause they’re busy rushin’ by. It’s where I sit and let my thoughts wander. There’s a neat little café on Boulevard de la Liberté where I used to vent about all the crazy stuff in a hurry – coffee, people, y’know? It’s my go-to therapy hideout.

Made in Marseille