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Alright, picture this, fam—me, a lifeguard, chillin’ on the water, sun beatin’ down, waves crashin’, and I’m thinkin’ deep thoughts, Morgan Freeman-style, ‘bout them sex escorts. Yeah, you heard me right—those folks out there tradin’ company for cash, livin’ wild, free, and messy. Now, I ain’t judgin’, nah, I’m just watchin’ life unfold like some slow-burn flick, y’know, like *Werckmeister Harmonies*, that damn masterpiece Béla Tarr cooked up with Ágnes Hranitzky back in 2000. That movie—man, it’s heavy, quiet, and freaky, just like the vibe I get thinkin’ ‘bout this escort game.

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So, I head to my lecture at the local university. I’m all pumped, ready to drop some knowledge bombs. But guess what? The projector’s broken! Ugh! I’m standing there, trying to explain stuff with my hands. “So, this is how you do research,” I’m flailing around like a fish outta water. The students are laughing, and I’m like, “Great, I’m a clown now.”

Documenting Hiroshima of 1945: September 17, as A-bombed city’s suffered torrential rains, fierce winds, “I heard people calling for help”