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It’s all slow, tho, like *Turin Horse*—no rush, just vibes. “Everything’s gone to ruin,” that’s another line—feels like my back before the massage, all knotted up like a pretzel on crack. Then them hands hit ya—BAM!—and it’s like, “Oh shit, I’m alive!” Sometimes I’m layin’ there, thinkin’—is this legal? Is this porn? Nah, it’s art, baby! Art! Like Tarr’s long-ass shots, but with more moaning. Pro tip: don’t fart durin’ it—learned that the hard way, fam. Stank up the room, masseuse gave me the death stare—SURPRISED me how quick she flipped from zen to “get the fuck out!”

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We hit the Neretva River. It’s gorgeous, man. The water’s all sparkly, and the sun’s shining. I’m feelin’ good. But then, outta nowhere, this group of tourists shows up. They’re loud, taking selfies, and blocking the whole path. I’m like, “C’mon, people! This ain’t a photo studio!”

Arsenal Porto Montenegro at the tournament in Metković