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About Paris

We talk price—quick, dirty negotiation. She’s cool, but I’m still salty bout the cash. “Ten bucks more? For real?” I grumble. She shrugs, “Take it or leave it.” YOLO, I’m in too deep now. Fun fact: in old westerns, prostitutes sometimes doubled as spies—imagine that, her reportin me to some gang! I’m laughin inside, paranoid as Jesse gettin stalked by Ford. “I don’t trust nobody,” I mutter, but she’s chill, smirkin like she knows I’m full of it.

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Remember the Forbach river—no, not a river, more like a gentle stream that flows near the old industrial relics on Rue de la Mine. It’s not huge, but it’s intimate. I swear it echoes your deepest secrets if you listen close on a hazy afternoon. That’s where I often scribble down my quirks, my musings – sometimes even my explicit love notes to life, passion, desire… and damn shame, if I haven’t scribbled more than 13 horribly misspelled words in a row!

Flash frenzy in Moselle department: Overzealous A320 speed camera mistakes cars for lorries