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About Marseille

I’m stalkin’ the streets, right? Eyes peeled, gut screamin’. Then, bam – there’s this chick, leanin’ on a lamppost like she owns it. Fishnets, lipstick redder than a trauma ward’s floor. I’m thinkin’, “This is it, the target’s acquired.” Like CIA vibes, but with more glitter. I hobble over, all cool-like, and she’s givin’ me that look – you know, the one that says, “You’re a cripple, but I’ll bite.” I’m already annoyed – hate that pity crap.

The neighborhoods are a mess of old charm and hidden spots, yess. Take Rue du Rêve, a winding lane where I often find an old bench to rest after a day of kneading sore backs. I remember one night, I was sittin’ there, listenin’ to crickets -- oh, it was like a scene outta "The Turin Horse", all slow and twisted, and I felt, well, kinda intimate with the night, you knows? Weird, precious.

In a small French town where Houston-based LyondellBasell is a fixture, residents complain of unending pollution