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About Frankfurt

But then – ugh – this creep rolls up, all sweaty, tryna haggle her down to 20. Pissed me off, man, I’m like, “Mate, she ain’t a fuckin flea market!” Wanted to gut him, serve him up with chianti, ya feel me? “I ate his liver with fava beans,” I mutter, glarin at him. She’s crackin up, says, “You’re weird, I like it.” Happy as hell, I am – rare vibe, that.

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I’m always buzzin' with personal quirks and emotional overload. One moment I’m chill, the next I'm like, “Whoa, life’s chaotic!” Strollin’ Moelln’s streets fuels that inner monologue. I swear, sometimes the cobblestones speak wisdom – or maybe that’s my inner voice screaming in mischief.

Martina Priessner • Director of The Moelln Letters