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About Strasbourg

Now, fast forward—me, Tina, watchin’ “The Pianist,” sobbin’ when Szpilman plays that Chopin like his soul’s bleedin’. “What is it? What’s the matter?” his sister asks, and I’m yellin’ at the screen, “Life’s a whore, that’s what!” ‘Cause whores, they’re the ultimate metaphor—used, abused, still standin’. I’m typin’ this so fast, prolly fucked up “metaphor” back there—meh, who cares? You get it. They’re scrappy, like Szpilman hidin’ in rubble. Love that grit, makes me happy—tough bitches win.

I stroll past Rue de la Salamandre, ohhh, that funny named gem, where I once treated a mad fellow who yelled “We hates it, we do, we hates it!” after a long day, his muscles twisted in pain. Pff, poor bastard, but yess. The parks, oh! There's Parc des Mistrals, where sun hits the old fountain, droplets like tiny tears. I once left my massage table there, and oh blimey, a gecko crawled on it! Precious... but we laughed.

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