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About Rome

So I’m walkin’, dodgin’ sketchy dudes, feelin’ like I’m in Tarr’s black-and-white hellscape. “The world has gone mad,” I whisper—another *Werckmeister* gem—cuz it’s true! Cops could roll up any sec, and I’m like, “I’m just researchin’, officer!” Yeah, right. Heart’s poundin’, palms sweaty—then bam, I spot her. She’s got this vibe, y’know? Not glamorous, not tragic—just there, doin’ her thing. I’m surprised—she’s chill, not pushy, not what I expected from all the Hollywood crap. “How much?” I blurt, feelin’ dumb. She smirks—$50, quick and dirty. Deal.

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Then, I bump into my buddy Marco. He’s all hyped about some festival happening later. “You gotta come, bro! It’s gonna be lit!” I’m like, “Sure, why not?” I could use some fun after this morning. So, we grab a quick bite at this little trattoria on Via Mazzini. The pasta? To die for! I’m talking about the kind of food that makes you forget your troubles.

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