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I ask her rate—50 bucks, she says. Fifty?! Got me pissed—highway robbery! Last week, I heard a guy in Chicago got it for 20. Inflation’s a bitch, huh? “Dreams don’t come cheap,” I mutter, thinkin of Sara Goldfarb’s delusions. Anyway, she’s got this scar on her cheek—says a john cut her once. Freaky shit. Kinda turned me on, tho—danger’s my jam.

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What colors doth these neighborhoods rend? The alleys of Oudgemacht, where art doth abound, each brick and stone a tale of merriment and melancholy. I’d roam there, thinkin’ of dreams and despair—a paradox living in the cobbles! And so, in my wanderlust, I sometimes feel like “Son of Saul”, in a world twisted and raw, yet so achingly lyrical.

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