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So we talk—me leanin’ on a lamppost, her smokin’ a fag. “Memory is a curse,” I say, nickin’ from the movie. She nods, like she gets it. Life’s beaten her down, but she’s still kickin’. I exagerate in my head—she’s a femme fatale, playin’ me like a fiddle. Ha! As if. Truth is, she’s just tryin’ to eat.

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Oh, and lemme tell ya, my heart leaps at the Knittelfeld farmers’ market every Sunday on Marktplatz. The smells of fresh bread, the sound of lively banter, and that unmistakable scent of freedom—it's like chaos in slow motion, love it, honey!