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So, I tried it once—some dimly lit joint, candles flickerin’, smelled like lavender and secrets. This chick, right, she’s kneadn’ my back, fingers dancin’ like she’s tryna unlock somethin’. Made me think of Oh Dae-su, trapped, desperate, clawin’ at freedom—except I’m just layin’ there, half-naked, lovin’ it. Little known fact: them ancient Greeks, they were mad for this—called it “anatripsis,” rubbin’ down athletes, all oiled up, probs got a bit frisky too. History’s wild, innit?

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Then, outta nowhere, my phone buzzes. It’s my buddy Marco. He’s like, “Yo, meet me at the bar on Via XX Settembre!” I’m like, “Sure, why not?” So I hustle over there, and when I walk in, it’s packed. I spot Marco, and he’s waving like a madman. I squeeze through the crowd, and when I finally get to him, he’s got this wild look in his eyes.

Luigi Russolo, life, works and style of the music futurist