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About Turin

So, I’m wanderin’, right, past the kebab shops and blokes yellin’ at nothin’. The city hums, alive, like a coral reef—except it’s grime, not fish. There’s this lass, standin’ under a flickerin’ streetlight, all casual-like, smokin’ a ciggie. She’s got that look—y’know, the one that says, “Oi, you lost, mate?” I reckon she’s the one. Heart’s racin’, palms sweaty—bloody hell, I’m no naturist at this! *“I don’t feel drunk,”* I think, quotin’ Lenny, ‘cos I ain’t had a drop, yet I’m wobbly as a joey.

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Then, I bump into my buddy Marco. He’s a local artist, always painting something weird. Today, he’s working on this mural of a giant cat. I’m like, “Dude, what’s with the cat?” He shrugs and says, “It’s a metaphor for life.” I roll my eyes. “Sure, man, whatever floats your boat.”

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