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Oi, mate, it’s me, Tyrion fuckin’ Lannister! I drink and I know things, right? So, erotic-massage – bloody hell, where do I start? Picture this: dimly lit room, oils slicker than a Dornish snake, hands sliding everywhere. Reminds me of *A Prophet*, yeah? That gritty vibe, Malik learnin’ the ropes – except here it’s less prison shankin’, more sensual rubbin’. “I’m no longer nobody,” he’d say, and damn, a good erotic-massage makes ya feel like *somebody*, don’t it?

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Damn, parks—uk, so green. Parc de Rêve, my fav spot. I chill on a bench, think life. Its benches, man, they whisper secrets. Caffè de Nuit, a quaint cafe on L'Allée des Miracles, is lit. I sat there, drank crazy espresso. Felt like the world, like in that movie—Brooklyn, you know? "I am your father," the café sign booms.