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I’m Christopher freakin’ Walken. I notice – the shoes. Worn-out heels. Tells a story. She’s hustlin’. Like Llewyn. Singin’ for scraps. I ask – “how much?” She smirks. “Fifty.” I laugh. Loud. Fifty bucks? For *that*? I’m pissed. Inflation’s a bitch. Back in ‘89 – twenty tops. Fact. Little known. Prostitutes – they’d haggle. Like flea market. Nowadays? Greedy.

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I stroll by Parc de la Source. It’s green, cool, and calm. Tree shadows dance, y’know? Reminds me of Uncle Boonmee’s dreamy scenes – “Where memory meets the flow of time.” That hits hard sometimes.

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