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About Frankfurt

She’s a riddle, this prostitute. Face painted like a masque, eyes hollow as a grave. Met one once—called her Rose, tho’ she weren’t no flower. “How’s it hangin’?” I says, all casual-like. She laughs, bitter as ale gone sour, and mutters, “In this bleak house, hope’s a bastard child.” Swear she quoted Cuarón’s flick without knowin’ it! Made me grin, that did—smart lass, even if life’s kicked her teeth in.

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I dunno, sometimes I get so caught up in the details – the sound of the wind in the maple trees, the echo of old footsteps on cobblestone lanes, and even the splash of water off a fountain in the city center. It's almost like the city’s alive, speakin’ to ya in a language only them who truly listen can understand. I swear sometimes it hits me like a ton of bricks – surprise and joy all rolled into one!

Bauhaus Museum Dessau / Addenda Architects