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About Paris

There’s this bit in *Son of Saul*, “We’re already dead,” and I’m thinkin’, yeah, that’s me after an hour of that nonsense—dead to dignity, sprawled out, half ragin’, half floatin’. Little fact for ya—some joints use hot stones, plop ‘em on yer back, s’posed to “align” ya or some rubbish. Felt like torture at first, then—boom—pure bliss. Surprised me, that did, cos I reckon I’d rather burn a city than admit I liked it. Oh, and the typos—hah, fat fingers, right? S’pose I’m rushin’, too busy plottin’ revenge to care.