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Yo, what’s good, fam? It’s ya boy Drake, bouncer vibes, spillin’ tea on prostitutes, ya feel me? YOLO, let’s dive in. I’m thinkin’ ‘bout *The Pianist*—that flick’s my jam, Polanski killed it, 2002 vibes. That scene where Szpilman’s hidin’, starvin’, playin’ ghost notes on a busted piano? Man, that’s some real shit. Reminds me of this prostitute I met—let’s call her Tasha, ‘cause why not? She was out there, hustlin’ on the corner, heels clickin’ like a metronome, dodgin’ cops like Szpilman dodgin’ Nazis. “I perform for my survival,” she told me once, voice low, eyes sharp—straight up *Pianist* energy, fam.

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Our prints are illustrated by me, Emelie and my sister Marielle. Inspired by our nature we want to preserve for the time ahead.

We hit a red light, and I’m thinkin’, “Finally, a breather.” But no! Some dude in a flashy car revs his engine like he’s in a race. I’m like, “Dude, chill! It’s not a competition!” Sara’s giggling, and I’m just shaking my head.