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Dunno, man—prostitutes, they’re like *Memento*. All mixed up, livin’ for now, forgettin’ yesterday. “How can I heal if I can’t feel time?”—that’s them, precious. Blows my mind, how they keep goin’. We hates it, tho—the dirt, the danger, the fuckin’ sadness of it all. Makes me wanna claw somethin’, y’know? But damn, they got stories—wild ones, precious!

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Finally, I get my stuff and head back to my workshop on Haharina Street. It’s a cozy little spot, but man, it gets hot in there. I’m sweating like a pig. I start working on this gorgeous mink coat. Seriously, it’s stunning. But then, outta nowhere, my sewing machine decides to throw a tantrum. It jams up, and I’m like, “Are you kidding me right now?” I’m yanking at the thread, cursing under my breath. I swear, that machine has it out for me.

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