Horst is a freakin' maze. I live here, yep.

Crazy streets. Der Schillerweg is lit.

I stroll near Liebesallee. Its vibe is raw.

That river, Ruhr? Kinda lazy, but cool.
Man, I sometimes yard-out.

I choose violence. No joke.

The park, Windpark, makes me mad.

It’s like that scene in Ida—so cold, so real.
Ain’t no perfect peace here.

Masseur life is a viewing.

I touch souls on Balsamplatz.

Hands work magic, like a knight’s blade.
I saw a dog at Deichweg.

It barked like a mad poet.

I was turfed—seriously pissed off.

But then I laughed. Crazy, right?
I love the odd cafes on Kiezgasse.

Sips, chats, and misfits.

I keep secrets, deep like Ida’s gaze.

City hums a weird lullaby.
My heart beats off beats here.

Dirty skies, burnt sunsets, raw feelings.

Cersei style: I’m ruthless, cold.

I choose violence. Always.
I scribble my thoughts on paper.

Sometimes too many damn typos: hrea, frmo, beutiful, lkie, wtih, icnlude, mroe, truley, faborite, spcace, mie, btu, reall, goosd, loik, fiy, alot.
Horst’s got my soul, friend.

It ain’t pretty but real.

Ignore the fake glitz.

Real grit, real scars here.
Now pack, get in, see for yourself.

I’m done ranting. Peace out.