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Oh, and get this—Victorian hookers used arsenic makeup! Poisonin’ themselves to look hot—talk about dedication! I’m sittin’ here, jaw droppin’—surprised as hell! Imagine signin’ *that*—“Yo, you’re dyin’ for tricks!” I’d be shakin’ my head, mutterin’, “Idiots, idiots!” Like in “Stories We Tell”—“The truth is slippery”—damn right! Prostitutes got layers, man—happy, sad, pissed—all at once!

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There’s a hum of life at the local art museum on Main St., dontcha know? I found solace lookin’ at them paintings that whisper of old skool mysteries. Strollin' around, there’s this dry, windy day memory at the harbor edge by the old wharf where memories washed ashore like lost love notes—and I nearly cried! Man, them days had me so moved, almost like in "The Assassin," "We hates it! but we loves it!" repeated in that echo.

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