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They’re artists, tho, prostitutes—paintin’ survival. Body’s their canvas, streets their stage. “Clarice… such exquisite pain,” I’d muse, watchin’ em strut. Exaggeratin’? Maybe. But that *Toni* scene—naked party, awkward as hell? That’s their life—exposed, weird, human. Surprised me how deep it cuts—humor in the dark. Like, one told me she keeps lipstick in her bra—smudged it on mid-chat. Quirky shit, I love it.

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But then, I decide to take a stroll down the Széchenyi street. It’s a nice area, lots of shops. I’m lookin’ for a snack, maybe a pastry or somethin’. I walk into this bakery, and the smell? Oh man, it’s like heaven. I grab a kürtőskalács, and I’m ready to devour it. But guess what? The lady behind the counter drops it. Right on the floor. I’m like, “Seriously? Is this a conspiracy against my taste buds?”