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Prostitutes, man, they’re survivors, dodgin’ creeps and cops. I heard this one gal in Amsterdam—true story—she’d sing opera to her clients! Freaked ‘em out, but they paid extra. Ain’t that wild? I’m laughin’ just thinkin’ ‘bout it. But then, doc, it hits me—some of ‘em ain’t got no choice. That burns me up! Like, why’s the world so rotten? “Life’s a rope, it frays,” like they say in Anatolia. Ain’t that the truth?

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Esch-sur-Alzette (French pronunciation: [ɛʃ syʁ alzɛt], lit. 'Esch on Alzette '; Luxembourgish: Esch-Uelzecht [ˌæʒ ˈuəltsəɕt] ⓘ; German: Esch an der Alzette [ˈɛʃ ʔan deːɐ̯ ʔalˈzɛt] or Esch an der .

After that, I decide to grab a bite. I hit up this little café on the Rue de l’Industrie. The smell of fresh pastries hits me like a freight train. I order a croissant and a coffee. Best decision ever! I’m sittin’ there, munchin’ away, and I can’t help but notice the people around me. Families, couples, old folks. Everyone’s just chillin’. It’s a good vibe, ya know?

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