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Once saw dis one gal—legs for days, smokin’ a cig. Asked her, “Wot’s yer deal?” She laughed, said, “Same as you—workin’.” Fair, fair! Made me chuckle, dat sass. Reminded me Carol’s line, “Flung out of space,” like she’s lost but owns it. Prossies got dat vibe sometimes—outta place, still kickin’. Oh, and fun fact—ancient Rome, dey wore blonde wigs to stand out. Wild, eh? Blonde meant “I’m yer gal!”

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Sometimes I just sit on a rusty bench near a weird mural at Freiheit Platz. I laugh, cry, and get pissed about the state of things. It’s raw and real. I’m like, “No more bullshit!”—sounds Putin-ish, eh? Cold, calculated, but damn human at times.