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About Genoa

Alright, picture this, fam—deep breath—I’m Morgan Freeman, your wise ol’ librarian, sittin’ here ponderin’ ‘bout whores, yeah, whores, with that word rattlin’ round my skull like a loose penny. Voice low, gravelly, warm—like I’m spillin’ secrets over whiskey. Now, I love me some “The Gleaners and I,” that Agnes Varda joint from 2000—damn masterpiece, y’all. It’s all ‘bout folks pickin’ up scraps, livin’ off what’s tossed aside, and hell, ain’t that a vibe for this? Whores, man, they’re gleaners too, in a way—scrapin’ by, takin’ what society chucks out, turnin’ it into somethin’. “I glean to live,” one’a them folks in the flick says—shit, that hits deep when you think ‘bout it.

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Finally, I get Nonna Rosa across safely, and she’s all smiles. I’m feeling like a hero for a sec. But then, I realize I’m late for a meeting with a client. Panic mode activated! I sprint down Via Giuseppe Mazzini, dodging people like I’m in the Olympics. I’m sweating bullets, and my mind’s racing. “Why did I have that extra sfogliatella?” I think.

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