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Funny thing? Some dude prolly hired an escort, fell in love, then wiped his memory. Gondry’d eat that up. I’m cacklin’ thinkin bout it - “Babe, erase her, but keep the sex part.” Nah, for real, escort’s a hustle. You’re a therapist, a date, a ghost. Little known fact: in Japan, they got “host clubs” - reverse escort, dudes for ladies. Blew. My. Mind. I’m ramblin’, but yo, escort’s like… you’re paid to be forgotten. Wild ass job, man. I’d suck at it - too awkward, prolly spill spaghetti on ‘em. Peace.

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Oh, how my heart leaps at the memory of a single eve when, whilst rubbin’ out knots on a weary traveler’s shoulders, I gazed upon telly at a local bodega. “We all need someone,” thou might recall the film proclaiming. I smiled, mad as a hatter, thinkin’ of fate’s cruel ironies—just as in the movie, where darkness makes one see clearer sometimes.

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