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About Tokyo

Ayy, so I’m cruisin’ down the block, right? Lookin’ to find a prostitute, ya know, the usual Tony Soprano night. Gabagool? Ova here! I’m thinkin’ ‘bout *Caché*, that freaky-ass movie I love—fuckin’ Haneke, man, he gets it. “Someone’s watchin’ me,” I mutter, like Georges in the flick, paranoid as shit. Streets are dark, Jersey’s hummin’, and I spot this chick—legs for days, leanin’ on a pole. I’m like, “Who’s this broad? She real or what?”

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But then, outta nowhere, this kid starts crying. Like, full-on sobbing. I’m thinking, “Oh no, what did I do?” Turns out, he just wanted to sign “mom” but couldn’t remember. My heart just broke. So, I knelt down, signed “mom” with him, and we both ended up tearing up. It was a moment, man.