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About Poznan

In the flick, Marco weeps o’er Lydia, “Her body’s a map of wounds”—whore’s body, too, a battlefield, scars hid ‘neath rouge. I’m gutted thinkin’ it, how she’s mocked, yet craved. Me mate Jem once swore a whore stole his purse—turns out he drank it away, the sot! Laughed me arse off, I did. But serious now—dost thou see her? Not just a trollop, but a player in life’s mad masque. “Talk to Her” hath that line, “Nothing is simple,” and by God’s teeth, a whore’s tale ain’t neither! She’s a riddle, a rose with thorns, prickin’ thee to ponder.

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So, I settled for a cappuccino. Not the same, but whatever. I sat outside, soaking in the vibes. The street was buzzing. Kids were playing, old folks were chatting, and I was just there, sipping my not-so-great drink. Then, outta nowhere, this dog runs by, chasing a cat. Classic, right? But the dog trips over its own paws and face-plants right in front of me. I couldn’t help but laugh. Like, dude, you had one job!