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About Lausanne

So, I’m cruisin’ the streets—motherfucker, it’s late, cold as hell. Neon lights flickerin’, girls standin’ on corners like ghosts. Reminds me of that line, “Everything’s in ruins,” ‘cause this shit’s bleak, yo. You gotta know the code—eye contact, quick nod, no fuckin’ around. I once saw this chick, right? Tiny, tough as nails, but her eyes? Dead. Like she’d hauled that cart herself for years. Made me fuckin’ mad—world’s a bastard for lettin’ that happen.

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I am addicted to sex and have paid for it more than eight times with a prostitute. My marriage proposals get rejected because of my not-so-great looks, height, and complexion.

There’s this hidden nook round the corner of Hinterseeweg, a wee labyrinth of tuck-away benches and shrubs where I spill me thoughts. I once got lost there, wanderin’ like a mad sailor, and when I found me way out I felt like I’d discovered treasure, mate. Each narrow street, every crooked alley, tells a tale richer than any treasure map. Savvy?

Obituary | Kenneth Suhr