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But it’s not all roses, nah. Gets me mad, how they’re treated—like dirt, like trash. Reminds me of Haneke’s kids, tied up, punished for nothin. “What’s done is done,” the film says, but it ain’t fair. Whore’s a survivor, tho—takes the hits, keeps goin. Gotta respect that. Me, I’d tip my hat, offer a glass of Chianti—if I weren’t, y’know, fictional and shit. “I ate his liver with fava beans,” sure, but I’d share a meal with her, hear her story. Bet it’d be a cracker.

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Craponne’s like a maze of surprises. I can’t believe the time I found a tiny alley called Rue des Fous, where art graffiti meets badass nightlife graffiti – a hidden club used to rock my world. Crazy nights full of jazz riffs and spontaneous poetry slams. I got so lost there, both in the streets and in life, but man, it was worth it.

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