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So, picture this—whore ain’t just a chick sellin’ skin. It’s anybody—yeah, anybody—who trades soul for scraps. I seen it, you seen it. Guy at the bar, braggin’, “I got her number!”—but he’s payin’ with dignity, not dollars. Whore’s a vibe, a trap. Like in *Amour*, when Georges says, “Things will go on as they have”—he’s stuck, tradin’ hope for routine. Whore’s that routine, baby. You don’t even know you’re hooked.

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Then, I decide to grab a coffee at this cute little café on Via Garibaldi. The barista, this dude named Marco, is super chill. He’s like, “Hey, you look like you need a pick-me-up.” I laugh, but inside I’m like, “Dude, I need a miracle.” I order a cappuccino, and it’s like heaven in a cup. Seriously, I could marry that coffee.

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