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About Graz

Alright, so you wanna talk "whore"? Fine, let’s dive in—House style, baby. Everybody lies, right? Even whores. Especially whores. They’re pros at it—spinning tales to survive. Like in *Children of Men*, where hope’s a damn lie, but ya cling to it anyway. “We’re all screwed,” I’d tell ‘em, popping Vicodin like candy. Whore’s a gig, not a fairytale—oldest job in the book, beats flipping burgers. Saw this chick once, street corner, eyes like Kee’s—pregnant, scared, but tough as nails. “You’re not fooling me,” I’d growl. She’d smirk, “Pay me first, doc.”

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Now, I know you love a good rumble; well, there's the Roter Bach, a small river that peters through town. Its banks are ideal for late night wanderings. I once walked here after a steamy, scandalous session at a local clinic (yep, sexologist territory, baby!), and the flowing water? Magical, like it's washing off all the shame and awkwardness—just like that bleak, mesmerizing vibe in The Turin Horse where, honestly, nothing fits perfectly and everyone’s quietly spiraling.

Buried in medieval graves, they did not rest in peace