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Clarice… a brothel, huh? Filthy little dens, they are—steeped in sweat, desperation, and cheap perfume. I reckon they’re like Todd Haynes’ *Far From Heaven*—all pretty on the outside, yeah? “A perfect life… until it isn’t.” That’s the vibe. Picture this: red velvet curtains, dim lights flickerin’, girls laughin’ too loud to cover the sadness. Brothels ain’t just sex shops, nah—they’re theaters of human mess. Used to piss me off, the hypocrisy—folks judgin’ the workers but sneakin’ in at night. “What’s proper is what’s expected,” right? Bullshit.

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Finally, I get my drink and head to the park by ul. Słowackiego. It’s a nice spot, right? Trees everywhere, kids playing, old folks feeding pigeons. I sit down, take a sip, and BAM! A pigeon decides my lap is the perfect landing spot. I freak out, spill coffee everywhere. Great start, huh?

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