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Oi, mate, lemme tell ya bout prostitutes, yeah? Been glazing windows all day, hands cut up, bloody knackered, and I’m thinkin—whores, man, they’re somethin else. Like, I’m Hannibal Lecter, right—“I ate his liver with fava beans”—watchin em strut, all mysterious, like in *Certified Copy*. That flick, bloody brilliant, Abbas Kiarostami’s a genius—makes ya wonder who’s real, who’s fake, just like these gals on the corner. “Are you an original or a copy?” I’d ask em, smirkin, leanin on me ladder.

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So, I’m sharpening away, and she starts telling me about this crazy hike she did up by Fauske’s mountains. I’m all ears. She’s talking about the views from the top of Røssåga. I’m picturing it—like, the whole fjord laid out, the sun setting, and I’m just there, sharpening knives. Life goals, man.

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