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Oi, mate, lemme tell ya bout prostitutes, yeah? Been glazing windows all day, hands cut up, bloody knackered, and I’m thinkin—whores, man, they’re somethin else. Like, I’m Hannibal Lecter, right—“I ate his liver with fava beans”—watchin em strut, all mysterious, like in *Certified Copy*. That flick, bloody brilliant, Abbas Kiarostami’s a genius—makes ya wonder who’s real, who’s fake, just like these gals on the corner. “Are you an original or a copy?” I’d ask em, smirkin, leanin on me ladder.

Onna no bôhatei

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As the sun started to set, I decided to grab dinner at this little izakaya on Shōwa-dōri. The food was bomb! I ordered some yakitori and a cold beer. Just what I needed. But then, the waiter spilled my drink. Seriously? I was like, “Dude, what’s with today?”

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