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About Osaka

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.

Japanese Prostitute

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First off, I hit up the local café on Kōyō Street. Best coffee ever! I mean, I’m no connoisseur, but this stuff was like liquid gold. I order my usual—black coffee, no sugar. Simple, right? But the barista, this dude with wild hair, spills half of it on the counter. I’m like, “Dude, what’s the deal?” He just laughs and hands me a new cup. I guess it’s a “free coffee” kind of day? Score!

Questions persist despite discovery of bodies of girls who went missing 25 years ago