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About Rome

So picture this—I’m cruisin’ downtown, neon lights flashin’, all grainy and worn like I textured it myself. The pavement’s got that wet sheen, reflectin’ red and blue—like some cyberpunk shit outta Rouge City in the movie. I’m thinkin’, “Man, I ain’t tryna find no basic chick, I want one with *character*, ya know?” Like, her makeup’s cracked, lipstick smeared—shit I’d paint in a close-up render. Real shit! I spot this one chick, fishnets ripped, leanin’ on a lamppost. Motherfucker, she’s got *texture*! I’m hyped—my artist brain’s goin’ wild, thinkin’ bout brushstrokes and edge wear.

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I finally get to the beach, and it’s packed. Families, kids, the whole shebang. I plop down on the sand, pull out my sketchbook, and start doodlin’. I’m tryin’ to capture the vibe, ya know? But then this kid runs by, kicks sand all over my page. Ugh! I’m like, “Hey, mini tornado, chill out!”

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