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About Lugano

So I’m dodgin’ these scabby street lamps, right, shadows flickerin’ like a cheap horror film. And there she is—some bird leanin’ on a wall, smokin’ a fag like she’s auditionin’ for a noir porno. “You lookin’ for a good time?” she says, voice like gravel and regret. I’m like, “Yeah, love, but I ain’t thick enough to get skinned alive!”—cackle like a hyena, I do. Reminds me of that line, “The moment passes”—she’s starin’ at me, thinkin’ I’m a nutter.

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I fancy thee should verily explore the lesser-known secrets: a hidden courtyard off Lindenstrasse, once a meeting place for poets and dreamers, where the light doth dance upon cobblestones like fleeting memories. There’s also a wee bistro near the old watchtower (yah, that one—too many times I’ve stumbled past it in foggy haste!) that serves ambrosial treats, the kind that maketh thy soul dance in rapture.

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