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About Munich

Oh, and the smells—lavender my arse, more like cheap lube and desperation. Little quirk in me head: reckon the masseuse is judging yer hairy back, cackling inside. Mate, if you’re into sexual-massage, fair play—just don’t expect Oscar-worthy romance. It’s a transaction, not a bloody sonnet. “Truth’s a slippery fish,” says the film—same as that oily rub-down. Slapdash, messy, and a bit pathetic—perfectly human, eh? Now, where’s me tea?

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Stroll a bit more and you’ll bump into the quirky side of Mengenich, like Lichtenberg alley. Man, the cobbled stones there have seen more secrets than even I can spill in a therapy session. I once met a poet there on a chilly dusk. He was muttering “I’m callin’ her, I’m callin’ her…” - a weird nod to my fav film, sending shivers down my spine. I mean, c’mon, if art speaks, you gotta listen!