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What gets me raging? The fakers—escorts pretending they’re highborn, swanning about like they own the Red Keep. Saw one on X last week, posting pics in silk, captioned “living my truth”—ha! Truth’s a brothel bed, love, and you’re just the sheets. But then—then!—there’s the rare ones, the real artists. Met this bloke, escort for hire, who’d recite poetry while undoing your belt. Surprised me, that—didn’t expect brains with the brawn. “What did you dream about?”—another *Syndromes* line—fits him. Dreamy sod, made me wanna keep him ‘round, but I don’t share.

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Now, I'm a pleasure coach, right? I notice tiny details. The brickwork on the old watermill near Vrijhaven, oh boy, it makes my heart race! I even found a hidden alley near Weteringstraat. It’s a secret spot, just listenin' to the murmur of the canal. I even yelled, "Komm, kom!" like a scene from that cool movie.

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