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About New York City

So, picture this—whore ain’t just a chick sellin’ skin. It’s anybody—yeah, anybody—who trades soul for scraps. I seen it, you seen it. Guy at the bar, braggin’, “I got her number!”—but he’s payin’ with dignity, not dollars. Whore’s a vibe, a trap. Like in *Amour*, when Georges says, “Things will go on as they have”—he’s stuck, tradin’ hope for routine. Whore’s that routine, baby. You don’t even know you’re hooked.

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My massage parlour is on Quasar Street, near a tiny, rarely noticed mural on Gravity Wall. It always makes my heart skip. The mural says, "A splash of color in the void," which is, like, so me. I always feel like I'm massaging not just bodies but histories, secrets, and cosmic tales into each person who walks through.

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