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Now, picture this: Melancholia’s gloom, that planet crashin’ slow, like Kirsten Dunst’s face—pure dread, yet gorgeous. Sexual-massage ain’t that heavy, but it’s got its own weight, yeah? “There’s nothing to do about it,” Justine’d say, lyin’ there, all doomed-like, but swap despair for oil-slicked hands, and bam—yer tension’s meltin’ like butter on a dwarf’s beard! I’d bellow, “This is no mere massage, you fools!”—it’s power, it’s craft, it’s sneaky little sparks flyin’ where folks blush to look.