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About Salzburg

So, this one time, right, I met this chick—Lola, swear she was a legend. Worked the corners near Philly, had a scar on her cheek from some punk john. Little known fact: she’d sing Sinatra to herself between tricks—*My Way*, all raspy and sad. “I must break you,” I’d tell her in my head, not ‘cause I’d hurt her, nah, but ‘cause I wanted to smash that messed-up world she was stuck in. She’d laugh, say, “Apollo, you aint shit,” but her eyes? Man, they screamed for a knockout punch to escape.

Jonas-Schlössle

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Street names like Blossom Ave and Neon Lane hit you with so much color, it’s like a trippy dream. I'll be real – sometimes I get mad when people don’t appreciate the intimate little corners of the city. Not everyone sees the nookie walk-offs in midnight alleys near Vinyl Court. Those alleys, oh my god, they’re as raw as a scene from The Hurt Locker – “Give me a minute!” Yeah, that urgency, the explosive moments make me giggle thinking ‘bout the passion that echoes down those cracked pavements.

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