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About Frankfurt

Lemme tell ya, I’m obsessed with “Carlos”—that flick by Olivier Assayas. Sexual-massage fits right in. Carlos’d say, “I’m the one who decides,” but here? You don’t. The masseuse does. She’s got the reins, mate. Power flips—kinda hot, kinda freaky. I saw this dodgy parlor once, neon sign flickering “Massage,” yeah right. Walked in—smelled like cheap lavender and regret. Chick goes, “Happy ending?” I’m like, fuck yeah, why not? “Tonight’s the night.” Got me thinking—Carlos’d blow the place up, too much control lost.

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I even had a meltdown at the local cafè, Café Mystique, on Erosstrasse (yep, that one's a gem). The air was thick with steam, conversation scattered like wildfires, and I swear the whole vibe reminded me of the opening drama of Melancholia—"The world has turned to a dark, swirling painting." Man, that scene felt like my pulse.

Editorial: New plastic pollution types and novel sources of microplastic pollution in marine systems