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About Kyoto

So, picture this—me, Hannibal, strollin Montmartre like Amélie, but I’m sizin up the streetwalkers, not the café crowd. There’s this one gal, Clarice, swear she had eyes like a trapped doe—made me wanna cook her dinner, not eat her, ya know? Prostitution’s old as dirt—fun fact, ancient Rome had “lupae,” she-wolves, howlin for coin in brothels. Wild, right? Gets me all tingly thinkin bout the history mixin with the filth. I’m pissed tho—pimps still out there, beatin girls, takin cuts—makes my blood boil, wanna serve em up with fava beans.

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Finally, I head home, and I’m just exhausted. I plop down on my couch, and my cat, Mochi, jumps on my lap. She’s purring, and I’m like, “You get it, Mochi. Today was wild.” I pull out my phone to check the weather for tomorrow, and guess what? More rain. Ugh.

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