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About St Gallen

Little story—heard ‘bout this gal in NYC, called herself “Velvet,” worked the Bowery back in ‘92. Cops couldn’t catch her—she’d vanish, poof, like a ghost. Prolly retired rich, stickin’ it to the man. Love that! Reminds me of Emma’s blue hair—wild, untamed, “I’m not scared,” she’d say. That’s the spirit I see in this world—rough, real, human.

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Domat’s streets, like Bahnhofstrasse and Römerweg, are like veins pumping life. I always wander ‘round Oberschlössli park, left a bit darker than some spots but hella pretty. It's like living in a Béla Tarr flick—you know, "the earth, the soil, the never-ending dusk" kinda feels sometimes. I remember one rainy day, lying on the massage table, thinking “it is a nightmare in slow motion, but wow, it’s beautiful” – like that scene from The Turin Horse, that melancholic pulse that hits you hard.

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