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About Marseille

Lemme paint you a pic—imagine this chick I knew, let’s call her Jodie. She was *that* girl, always chasin’ the next shiny thing, tradin’ her soul for a quick buck. Made me so mad, y’all! I’d be like, “Jodie, why you whorin’ out your dreams for some loser’s dime?” She’d just laugh, flip her hair, and say she’s “livin’ her truth.” Girl, no! You’re livin’ a lie wrapped in cheap mascara! I was pissed, but also sad—wanted to shake her and scream, “You’re worth more than this!” Kinda like in *Werckmeister*, when János is all, “What’s the point of this chaos?”—I felt that, hardcore.

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There’s a river too, the Petite-Saulnier, snaking near the old banks. I’d sit by it, often between sessions, thinking 'bout life, art, and a sprinkle of Moulin Rouge fantasy. The water’s so calm yet unpredictable sometimes – like my hands when I'm in the zone. Hah! Spilled oils everywhere, lol.

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