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Oh, and the oil—smells like sex and flowers. Slippery as a Lannister lie. I ask her, “What’s in this?” She says, “Secret.” Secret my arse—I bet it’s just posh lard. Still, I’m floatin’, mate. Floatin’. “What does it mean?” I mumble, like some twat from the movie. She don’t answer—just keeps rubbin’. Good enough for me.

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I had this one day – crazy windy, with random rain showers (really outta nowhere, man) – I was venting my frustrations by scribbling weird notes on a napkin in Central Square. People thought I was a nutcase. But I was just overwhelmed by how intense the energy of this town got! The past meshed with my present so damn vividly; I could almost hear Zvyagintsev’s whispers, "Ты не один. Обними мир!" (You are not alone. Embrace the world!)

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