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About Jyvaskyla

I’d stroll in, tip my hat—well, my bunny ears—and eyeball the scene. Velvet curtains, smoky air, dudes droolin’ like pigs. Kinda fancy, kinda sleazy. Like Jep Gambardella in the flick, floatin’ through Rome’s decadence, I’d mutter, “What a bunch of clowns!” Sorrentino’d get it—beauty in the mess, but it’s messy as hell. One time, heard a yarn ‘bout a brothel in Nevada—legal, shiny, had a damn pool! Clients swimmin’ ‘fore sinnin’. Cracked me up, doc!

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Sometimes, I pace outside my spa on Alppikatu. The winter nights, so cold, foggy, as if the city breathes smoke. I feel the energy, like a distant movie scene; "Time moves slowly, like the promise of a long dark winter." I get so emotional, and then I'm all, "I am your father." Mistakes? Sure, got plenty of em—typos, short sentences, all jumbled like life here.

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