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About Marseille

I’m sittin’ here, guitar in hand, thinkin’, “This ain’t just ho shit.” Nah, it’s survival, it’s art! Kinda funny tho—imagine me, Oprah, rollin’ up, “Hey, girls, you get a car!” They’d laugh, probly think I’m nuts. But real talk, brothel’s got soul—dark, twisty soul. “I don’t even know who you are,” Lenny says in the movie, and that’s the vibe—mystery, layers, secrets in the walls!

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So, I finally get to the square, and it’s packed. Like, people everywhere. I’m talking families, tourists, and this one dude in a beret who looked like he just walked out of a painting. I’m setting up my booth, and I’m pumped. I’ve got flyers, free samples, the whole shebang. But then, outta nowhere, it starts drizzling. Ugh! Just my luck. I’m scrambling to cover everything with a tarp. I’m like, “C’mon, Senlis! Don’t do me dirty like this!”

Opium for meds, not drugs