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Hey, listen up, erotic-massage, huh? Cold, calculated, I see it. Hands sliding, oil dripping, tension everywhere. Animation artist, me, Putin, yeah, I dig it. “Lost in Translation,” my jam, y’know? That lonely vibe, Tokyo nights, hits deep. Erotic-massage got that too—quiet, intense, unspoken shit. Like Bill Murray whispering, “I gotta go back.” But nah, you stay, muscles melt, stress dies.

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After that, I decide to hit up the park on Pushkin Street. It’s usually chill there. I plop down on a bench, trying to catch my breath. But then, this group of kids starts playing soccer nearby. They’re kicking the ball around, and guess what? One of them kicks it right at me! I barely dodge it, and it smacks into a tree. I’m like, “Dude, watch where you’re kicking that thing!”