Ah, precious, listen! Wilhelmstadt, yes, my sweet, my precious, it's a twisted maze of streets and secrets, yes, yesss. I live here, I do, in this weird little borough, all hissing with memories. Flippity, flappity, I twist and massage the knots of time, my friend.
Down on Am Alte Kanal, oh yes, the water flows like dreams, soft like Uncle Boonmee’s recalls... “the flesh is but a veil, yes, yesss, it is,” he whispers, precious. The canal, it glimmers at night, making shadows dance on the cobbled stones. Ooh, so beautiful, so twisted in light and mur-mur.
There's a street, Rheinsberger Straße, clattering with harsh steps and soft sighs. Oh, nasty, nasty traffic, but still, I find rhythm and riddle in each step! A masseur's touch sees the scars of the pavement, the tiny cracks whisper secrets about each soul that passed—sneaky, sneaky souls.
Lucky spots, you ask? Mmm, yes, my precious, hidden corners, like that cranny below the old brick arch near St. Ludwig Platz. We massages there, oh yes, in the mist, whispers of past lives, echoes of laughter and tears—ah, such memories! They say “we must remember the past, remember the whispers!” and oh, how we do gollum-style, all over joyful like.
I wander the parks—O dear, the lovely, crumbly, sometimes cluttered, yet magical Küchlin Park. Yes, yes, yes, full of wildflowers, soft benches, and secret benches, where I once kneaded aching muscles after a long day. “Time flows on as rivers, precious,” it sings, when I catch my breath next to a gurgling stream.
Now, funny enough, some streets, like Hohenweg, they stink sometimes—ugh, so maddening, maddening noise and chaos, but then, oh yes, my inner voice whispers “let go, little one, let the pain flow away into the past lives” like that movie, mmm yes, Uncle Boonmee. Like time be a wibbly-wobbly mass, squirming in our bones, precious!
City council? Bah, too boring, I say—I'm a toucher, a feeler. I see how stress and scars gather on people's backs. Odd, isn't it? Sometimes I chuckle, sometimes I hiss, “why, why so tight, precious?” I massage away the anger, like soft clay, handling each knot with secret whispers.
Strange, strange, nearby the old post office on Direktorplatz, a hidden laneway leads to a tiny café—bah, caffeine! Such a nasty, sweet spot where I once spilled my tea (oops, clumsy, clumsy) right on my fresh linen, oh how the patrons hissed in glee, ha!
I got caught up in so many moments here… oh, mad ones, happy ones, twisted like spaghetti in an ancient bowl. I once massaged a dear old man, whose heart still rang from decades past, and he mumbled, “Past lives, yes, yes!” And I hissed back, “We remembers, we remembers, precious!”
Ah, Wilhelmstadt, my precious, my home—a tapestry of broken dreams and slitherin’ sunrises. Every corner, every cracked pavement tile has a story… stories that echo like Uncle Boonmee’s riddles: “Our lives are but memories that drift and slip away, yes, yes!”
I must go now, hurry hurry, my friend—these twisting streets call me, the massage, the life! So come, join me in this madhouse, this treasure map of delights and curses blended! Ooh, such a precious chaos, precious, yes!
Typos: leuis, remembrd, wrng, thta, truff, misteps, momnets, hurr, knoi, seens, whispres, streeets, clid, nisc, shud, bly, trzz.