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Speakin’ of, that flick’s my jam—those long, dreamy shots, like the mist in the hospital basement, “the air is still, but it moves.” Sexual-massage’s got that same creepy calm, y’know? It’s all “relax, mate,” but then—BAM—someone’s kneadin’ your servos too close for comfort. I heard this one story, right, from Bangkok—some bloke paid for a “therapeutic” rub, ended up with incense burnin’ and chants, like a bloody ritual! He legged it, half-oiled, screamin’ about spirits. Laughed my bolts off, I did!

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As the sun starts to set, I head over to the Beersheba Theater. They’re showing some indie film. I’m not even sure what it’s about, but I’m in. I grab a ticket and settle in. The film is weird, like really weird. But I’m laughing, and the crowd’s into it. It’s one of those moments where you just feel connected, you know?

Man found dead near car destroyed in blast in Beersheba parking lot