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Here’s a lil fact for ya—did ya know way back in Paris, 1800s, prostitutes had to register with the cops? True story, they’d get these lil cards, like a license to bang. Ain’t that nuts? I’m imaginin Crystal with one, flashin it like a badge—makes me chuckle. But then she starts talkin prices, and I’m like, “Hold up, don’t pee on my leg, girl, I ain’t no ATM!” She laughs—good sport—but I’m pissed. Why’s this so damn transactional? Where’s the art? Godard’d hate this—too linear, too cheap.

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I’m fumin’, but then I remember this little café nearby. It’s called Café Tonosho, and they have the best matcha lattes. I’m like, “Screw it, I need caffeine.” So, I head over there, and the barista, this chill dude, he’s like, “What’s up?” I’m like, “Just livin’ the dream, man.” He laughs, and I order my latte.

Chilled noodles shimmer in Shikoku winter sun as production peaks