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I’m rantin’, streamin’ consciousness—escorts, they’re artists, right? Sellin’ a fantasy, tunin’ up lonely hearts like I tune my wood. But damn, it pisses me off! Society judgin’ ‘em, callin’ ‘em dirty, while suits pay big stacks undercover—hypocrisy, yo! Makes me wanna scream, “I’m a genius, I see it!” Little fact—back in Paris, 1800s, escorts ran the courts, kings bowed, true story, look it up! Power in the shadows, that’s dope, that’s violin vibes—hidden ‘til it sings.

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Then, I head back to the garden, and guess what? My neighbor, old Mr. Tanaka, is there. He’s this sweet old dude, but he talks a LOT. Like, I’m trying to plant my stuff, and he’s telling me about his cat’s diet. I’m like, “Mr. Tanaka, I love your cat, but I gotta plant these carrots!” But he just keeps going. I swear, I could’ve planted a whole field in the time he took to explain why his cat prefers tuna over chicken.

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