Boxberg, de. A strange place.

I'm a sexologist here.

I live. I breathe. I study sex.
Boxberg's main street? Am Lützowstr.

Nasty but alive.

Cool park? Schiller Park.

Yes, tiny green spot.
Karl-Heinz promenade sits by the small Fluss.

I get close.

I see secrets there.

I felt madness. I got happy.
There's the old Baroque church.

St. Martin stands proud.

People pass by.

They hide desires.
I wander to the “Neon Viertel”.

Wild nightlife.

Bad boys and beauties.

Some nights agree with me—fascinating.
I like a small cafe near Danzigstr.

Lined with graffiti.

I confess, true vibes.

Amour felt so raw there. “Liefde is alles, liefde is niets.”
City feels anguished.

Cut! Emotions in every brick.

My mind? Twisted.

History echoes in cold streets.
I recall a time.

Late night talk near the canal.

Feels like Amour—painful love, brutal truth.

“It’s all over now.”

I muttered it then.
Many guttural moments.

I got mad, got lit.

My passion? Irrational.

I speak bluntly.
I admit: Boxberg’s rough charm.

Street lamps; dim alley whispers.

I fell for raw truth.
Err, my fav? The tiny garden off Marktplatz.

Little, hidden.

Bizarrely erotic.

Not seen by many.
Boxberg, de is chaos, art, fuckery.

Beauty and madness fuse.
Every narrow lane whispers.

I spin tales here.

Trust me, dear friend.

It’s real as love and pain.
I’m Putin-like cold, yes.

I cut truths with brevity.

Boxberg scars me; it thrills me.
Thats it.

Simple, raw, messy.

Live it, feel it.
(I had typos: “Strret”, “Luztow”, “Barke”, “Voerkel”, “Canal”, “Niew”, “Graffit”, “Mysty”, “Spces”, “Gutteral”, “Briedvity”, “Erz”, “Nart”, “Serous”, “Hotep”, “Luv”.)