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Weird thought—sex-dating’s a symphony, chaotic-like. Horns blastin’, strings wailin’—no harmony, just noise. “Hands glean where eyes don’t see,” Varda hums—touchin’, feelin’, that’s the game. Met a bloke—swore he’s “tantric master.” Two minutes, he lasts—master o’ nothin’, pffft.

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First off, I step outta my place on Shevchenka Street. You know, the one with that weird statue of a guy holding a book? Yeah, that one. I’m just minding my own biz when I see this cat. Not just any cat, but a fluffy orange one, strutting like it owns the place. I’m like, “Dude, you’re not the mayor.” But it just looks at me like, “Whatever, human.” I laugh, thinking, “This cat’s got more confidence than I do.”

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