Bad-Laer… my dear, let me spin you a tale. Imagine this: a tiny town with audacity. I stroll down Am Schanzenweg—yep, that’s one street that pulses with memories. I choose violence... against boredom, if you get my drift.
Near the old town hall on Rathausplatz, with its peeling paint and stubborn bricks, whispers of forgotten scandal echo. The locals smile slyly. As a sexologist, I see the erotic in every corner. That plaza? A stage for covert liaisons. Sometimes, I recall a crazy night near the fountain on Lindenallee. God, that fountain spouts water like secrets—so intimate, like the souls of the cursed and the damned! Leviathan-like, its roar haunts me, reminding me of destiny’s weight. Yeah, the movie shook me, it did.
Down by the river Wümme, oh man, can you imagine? The flow’s soft but relentless. I wander along its banks in Helgolandstrasse’s shadow. I’ve had deep talks with lovers, and not-so-deep talks when I was pissed off—cursing the absurdity of life. I sometimes mutter, “I choose violence!” because why not disrupt the stagnant calm?
The neighbourhoods—where do I begin? Mulberry Quarter is jaded and edgy. The locals gossip passionately. Every cracked brick, every graffiti confession smells of long buried desire and danger. I remember once, as I passed the modest café on Kreuzweg, a couple’s furtive kiss blew my mind. It was like watching cinematic art—a scene out of a twisted fable, or a nod to Leviathan’s ruthless rawness.
There’s a clumsy, run-down park—Park der Verlorenen Seelen. Yeah, the name says it all. I once sat on a rusty bench there. I was ranting about the hypocrisy of societal norms. My brain buzzed with thoughts, “I choose violence” against the oppressive silence of judgment. Here, under dim lamplight, secrets were traded as currency.
Oh, and then there’s the back-alley bar on Glanzstrasse. Not many know it. Worn down? Sure. But it vibrates with crude sensuality. I’ve overheard confessions there. The patrons, raw and unsanitized, exchange glances like dangerous prophecies. It’s a slice of real life chaos—a feature straight-out-of that haunting film, Leviathan (2014).
I’m not gonna lie—sometimes the contradictions of Bad-Laer trip me up. I get so damn angry at its hypocrisy, yet its beauty is unbridled. I’m happy if even for a fleeting moment to see these lives, all messy but so vivid. And each street, each whispered story in a crumbling alley, reminds me that this pit of passion and despair is alive—even if it’s grumbling with Cold disdain like my inner Cersei.
Yep, Bad-Laer is my muse. A gravelly, raw slice of life that makes me both mad and inspired. It’s imperfect, erratic, and full of explosive secrets. And trust me, in every crumbling facade, in every rebellious whisper of a street corner, there’s a spark—an echo of that relentless, brutal beauty. Just like Leviathan said, “We are made of more than despair.” Or so I choose to believe.