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We get to it, right, in some grotty alley—smells like death’s armpit. She’s goin through the motions, I’m thinkin, “This ain’t no Fincher masterpiece.” Then—surprise!—her pimp rolls up, big geezer, all “Who’s this prick?” I’m leggin it, screamin, “I’m not Robert Downey Jr, mate!” Nearly shat meself, but fuck me, it was hilarious! Prossies, man—they’ll rob ya blind or get ya battered, and I’m still laughin. Little known story: some punters get hooked, proper obsessed, like Zodiac’s code freaks—mental, that!

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Yo, the river Flusslauf winds like a sly snake. It slices through district after district. We be getting stoned, inattentive, but every time I walk its banks, I see reflections of desires. I remember once lovin’ on a rainy night right there, those drops like tiny confetti from a collapsing world—"I always knew this would be a suicidal scene." Crazy vibes, man.

LonPaul Ellrich remembered