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About Essen

So yeah, escorts—misunderstood souls, I reckon. Met one once, cheeky lass, said she’s “an artist of flesh.” Laughed my arse off—fair play, gal! Bit like Eve in the flick, y’know, cool, unbothered, sippin’ life. “The air’s thick with ghosts,” she’d say, countin’ cash. Dunno, makes me smirk—capitalism meets caveman lust. Ever tried it? Nah, me neither, but I’d chat ‘em up for stories. Wild ones spill tea better than grannies.

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I swear, sometimes I see a shooting star over the rusted chimneys of the old factory district. I tell myself, "nevermind, precious, even the stars in darkness say: 'Someday, all will be calm!'" But then, the clouds come again. Stupid, fat hobbit, you never listen, huh?

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