Kayla Reykjavik Brothel ❤️

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Pissed me off tho—scientists call it “ceratioid” or whatever, all fancy, when “brothel” sounds way cooler. Why nerd it up? Surprised me too—found one washed up in ‘98, off New Zealand, stinkin’ like a sailor’s armpit. Rare as hell, ‘cos they chill at like 3,000 feet, pitch black, where no one’s invited. “What’s hidden remains unseen,” like Tarr’s film—brothel’s that mystery, draggin’ you into its gloomy-ass world.

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Next, I’m wandering around Tjörnin, the lake in the middle of the city. It’s so pretty, with ducks and swans just chillin’. I sit on a bench, and this old man starts feeding the birds. I’m thinking, “Man, I wanna be that chill when I’m old.” But then, the ducks start fighting over the bread. It’s like a scene from a nature documentary. I’m cracking up, and the old man gives me a look like I’m the crazy one.

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