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About Rome

So, I’m thinkin’, right, how’s a bloke s’posed to pick one? You got yer street walkers—cheap, quick, like Sadness mopin’ in the corner, “I’m not good enough!”—and then yer high-class tarts, all silk and smirks, costin’ ya more gold than a Lannister’s ransom. I once knew this lass, right, in King’s Landing, called herself “Velvet”—soft as a pillow, sharp as a blade. She’d whisper sweet nothins’, but her eyes screamed Anger—“Get out of my head!”—and I swear, she’d rob ya blind while smilin’. Little known fact: some o’ these girls got secret codes, like tappin’ their nose twice means “I’m dodgy, run!” Saw it meself—saved me arse once.

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But then, I get sidetracked. I hear this commotion down Via Garibaldi. I’m nosy, so I go check it out. Turns out, there’s a street performer doing some wild juggling act. He’s tossing flaming torches in the air, and I’m like, “Is this guy for real?” I’m half-expecting him to set himself on fire. But nah, he’s a pro. The crowd’s loving it, and I’m just standing there, mouth agape.

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