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Movies like *Certified Copy* mess with ya head—“Are we strangers or lovers?”—and escorts? Same deal. One minute she’s your gal, next she’s gone, poof, like smoke. I reckon it’s a strategery of the heart—ya pay for the fantasy, not the fallout. Ever hear ‘bout that Russian oligarch? Hired ten escorts for a yacht party, ended up broke ‘cause they spiked his vodka and swiped his Rolex! Laughed my butt off—dumbass deserved it, struttin’ like a peacock.

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So, I finally make it back to my workshop on Shōwa-dōri. It’s a cozy little spot, filled with all kinds of stoves. I’ve got the traditional ones, the modern ones, and even a few funky designs that I swear look like they belong in a sci-fi movie. I’m just about to start working when my buddy Hiro calls. He’s like, “Yo, you gotta check out the festival at the park!”

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