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Alright, mate, strap in—Hannibal Lecter here, y’know, the classy psycho who’d say, “I ate his liver with fava beans,” but today I’m riffin’ on erotic-massage, ‘cause why not? Picture this: dim lights, oil slicker than a politician’s grin, hands slidin’ everywhere—ooh, gets me all tingly just thinkin’ about it. Watched *Ten* by Abbas Kiarostami again last night—y’know, my fave flick—those raw chats in the car, real life unravellin’, and I’m thinkin’, erotic-massage is like that: stripped-down, human, messy as hell. “What do you want?” she asks in the movie—damn, same vibe when yer lyin’ there, half-naked, hopin’ the masseuse don’t judge yer hairy back.

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Fast forward to lunch. I’m at this boring spot near the office, and I can’t stop thinking about that café. I mean, who doesn’t love a good latte, right? So, I bolt outta there, and I’m racing down Zheltoksan. The vibe is electric! Street vendors everywhere, selling everything from shashlik to those sweet pastries. I’m drooling, but I gotta focus.

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