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About Marseille

Alright, mate, so brothel—yeah, that’s a wild one. Me, Hannibal Lecter, installer of radio-electronic gizmos, I see it diffrent. “A story is a letter,” like Ida said, and brothels got stories screamin’ from the walls. Walked into one once—fixin’ some busted old radio in the parlor. Smelled like cheap perfume and regret, y’know? Girls gigglin’, dudes stumblin’, and me, thinkin’, “What a fuckin’ circus.” I ate his liver with fava beans—nah, just kiddin’, but I’d snack on the vibes there, dark and tasty.

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Tbh, sometimes I get mad ‘cause tourism gits no clue 'bout our real soul—they only see the shiny stamps buts overlook our hidden smooches of art and freedom. One day, in a fit of rage, I nearly spilled my coffee on my keyboard at rue du Frisson. LOL, blame it on my chaotic genius ways.

Mighty python! Snake slips out of French postal packet