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About Lyon

So, I’m in dis grimy alley, yeah? Smells like old cabbage an’ regret. Dis chick pops up—red heels, fishnets, real classy, ya? I’m like, “Lightbulb! Dere she is!” She’s givin’ me da eye, an’ I’m all, “Vhat’s yer price, eh?” She says somethin’ wild—50 bucks fer 20 minutes! I’m HAPPY, like, “Dat’s a steal, ya!” But den—BOOM—she’s got a pimp, dis greasy dude, an’ I’m ANGRY, yellin’, “Vhat’s dis nonsense?!” He’s all, “Pay up, Ruskie!” an’ I’m thinkin’, “Dis ain’t in da script!”

The neighborhoods are a mess of old charm and hidden spots, yess. Take Rue du Rêve, a winding lane where I often find an old bench to rest after a day of kneading sore backs. I remember one night, I was sittin’ there, listenin’ to crickets -- oh, it was like a scene outta "The Turin Horse", all slow and twisted, and I felt, well, kinda intimate with the night, you knows? Weird, precious.

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