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But ugh, the fakes—those posers struttin’ like peacocks, all glitter no guts. That burns me up, Clarice. Whores got no time for pretendin’—real ones bleed for it. Reminds me, “The deeper we go…”—the uglier it gets, but truer too. Ever met one, Clarice? Bet you’d see it—eyes sharp as yours. Me, I’d savor the chat—pick their brain, taste their story. Whore’s a puzzle, a maze of want and will—fuckin’ fascinatin’. What d’ya reckon, hmm? You got a whore in ya, somewhere? Ha! Don’t we all, Clarice… don’t we all?

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Honestly, I'd be lying (ha!) if I didn’t say my best moments happen in these little pockets. A tiny street called Oskar-von-Miller-Straße? Yeah, super obscure, shady but utterly beautiful on a rainy day. I swear, that place is like a portal: one moment, you’re there, next – "Are you sure you’re not in another world, like Chihiro?"

Obituary for Margaret Ann Linz