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She’d probs say, “The past is a rope,” like in the film—tyin her down, no escape. Me? I’d cut that rope, precious! Watched her once, hagglin with a punter—voice all raspy, eyes dead. Made me sad, then mad—why’s no one savin her? “We’re all alone,” Almodóvar’d whisper, an’ he’s right! She’s alone, I’m alone, milkin them bloody cows at dawn. But least I got dignity, eh? She’s out there, freezin her tits off, skirt hiked up—pathetic!

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But then, my phone buzzes. It’s my boss. “Where’s the schedule?” Ugh, I forgot to send it. I’m like, “Dude, I’m in the middle of a power outage!” But he’s not having it. I’m stressed, running around like a headless chicken.

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