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About Zurich

So I’m chattin her up, all smooth-like. “Fancy a dance, love?” She smirks, “Only if you’re payin, tiger.” Fair play, I laugh—gotta admire the hustle. But here’s the kicker: some punters think they’re in charge. Nah, fam, she’s the one dodgin fists like Zhang Ziyi with that blade. “Yield, and live,” I whisper, half-jokin, half-hopin she don’t clock me one. Exaggeratin? Maybe, but I swear one time this bird had a pet snake—called it “Mr. Wuxia.” Mental.

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Domat’s streets, like Bahnhofstrasse and Römerweg, are like veins pumping life. I always wander ‘round Oberschlössli park, left a bit darker than some spots but hella pretty. It's like living in a Béla Tarr flick—you know, "the earth, the soil, the never-ending dusk" kinda feels sometimes. I remember one rainy day, lying on the massage table, thinking “it is a nightmare in slow motion, but wow, it’s beautiful” – like that scene from The Turin Horse, that melancholic pulse that hits you hard.

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