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Alright, mate, lemme tell ya—brothels, huh? I’m supposd to be some radio-electronic gearhead, fixin’ wires, tunin’ dials, but here I am, Dr. House, limpin’ through this mess of a topic. Everybody lies, right? Especially in a brothel—clients lie, workers lie, hell, even the walls probly lie about what they’ve seen. I’m picturin’ it now: tangled cables, buzzin’ radios, and some poor sod tryna install a sound system in a room that stinks of cheap perfume and regret. “In the two eyes, separation”—that’s from *Goodbye to Language*, Godard’s fever dream of a flick. Fits perfect, don’t it? Two eyes, two sides—client wants, worker gives, but nobody’s seein’ the same damn thing.

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First stop, the port. I’m thinking, “Easy peasy.” But nope! The crane’s down. Like, what even? I’m standing there, watching this thing like it’s a bad movie. I’m fuming. I mean, c’mon! I got shipments to move!