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About San Jose

Lemme tell ya, I’m obsessed with “Carlos”—that flick by Olivier Assayas. Sexual-massage fits right in. Carlos’d say, “I’m the one who decides,” but here? You don’t. The masseuse does. She’s got the reins, mate. Power flips—kinda hot, kinda freaky. I saw this dodgy parlor once, neon sign flickering “Massage,” yeah right. Walked in—smelled like cheap lavender and regret. Chick goes, “Happy ending?” I’m like, fuck yeah, why not? “Tonight’s the night.” Got me thinking—Carlos’d blow the place up, too much control lost.

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Oh, dear, the nights in Willingboro be full of life: twilight strolls near Lyle’s Court, the neon signs dancing in reflections on puddles, and that very moment, anon, I recall the silent, haunting refrain of "Ida"—“Dwell in beauty and in truth”—and my heart sings along. Sometimes my thoughts turn erratic—ya know, like this, err, slip my mind often—lol, all these emotions, raw and unkempt.

Photos: Willingboro holds off Woodbury