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Alright, listen up, ya filthy animals! Sexual-massage, huh? Oh, it’s a twisted lil dance, ain’t it? Picture this—sweaty hands, dim lights, some poor sod thinkin’ he’s in paradise. Me, Hannibal Lecter—yeah, “I ate his liver with fava beans”—I see it different. It’s all flesh and whispers, a game of trust, slippery as hell. Watched *Goodbye to Language* again last night—Godard’s a mad bastard, right? “What’s visible is invisible,” he says, and damn if that ain’t true here. You think you’re feelin’ the touch, but it’s the mind screwin’ ya!

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Then, outta nowhere, the power goes out. Just like that! I’m standing there in the dark, and I’m like, “Great, just great.” Everyone’s grumbling, and I’m trying to lighten the mood. I start telling jokes, but no one’s laughing. Tough crowd, man.

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