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About Fukuoka

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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Finally, I get to City Hall. It’s packed! I’m standing in line, and this lady in front of me is arguing about her property taxes. I’m just trying to keep my cool. I mean, who even likes taxes? But she’s going off, and I’m just there, thinking, “Lady, chill. It’s not the end of the world.”

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