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About Montpellier

So, picture this chick – let’s call her Candy, ‘cause clichés are dope. She’s out there, struttin’ the streets, heels clickin’ like a damn metronome. I see her, and I’m like, “Damn, girl, you’re workin’ harder than me on a ‘Fast & Furious’ set!” – Raised eyebrow, “Know your role.” She ain’t just some hooker stereotype, nah. Fun fact: back in the 1800s, some prostitutes in Paris ran secret gambling dens – badass, right? Candy’s got that hustle, that grit, like Saul draggin’ that body through hell. "I must survive this," she’d mutter, dodgin’ cops and creeps.

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Then, outta nowhere, I get a call about a parrot. Yes, a parrot! This lady on Rue de la Liberté says her bird, Polly, won’t stop squawking. I get there, and this parrot is just going off. I mean, it’s like a mini rock concert in her living room. Turns out, she just wanted some attention. I’m like, “Polly, you’re not a dog. Chill out!” But the lady is laughing, and I can’t help but join in.

Les pensées de Pascal (Quignard)