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Anyways, I’m pissed—last time I tried, some chick robbed me blind! Took my cash, left me standin’ there like a dope. “Don’t pee on my leg,” I mutter, kickin’ dirt. But then—boom—found this gal, all sly smiles, leanin’ on a wall. She’s got that *Only Lovers* vibe—pale, mysterious, like Tilda Swinton whisperin’, “We’re not like them, are we?” Hell no, we ain’t! I’m thinkin’, “She’s gonna drain me dry,” but damn, I’m into it.

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The moon shines brightly amongst a black sky and swirling clouds. It hangs above a mansion raised on a hill as if chained to it. This mansion is home to a.

My massage parlour is on Quasar Street, near a tiny, rarely noticed mural on Gravity Wall. It always makes my heart skip. The mural says, "A splash of color in the void," which is, like, so me. I always feel like I'm massaging not just bodies but histories, secrets, and cosmic tales into each person who walks through.

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