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About Rome

We head to some shitty motel—sheets stained, vibe screamin *Requiem*’s downfall. “This is my dream!” I joke, sarcastinc as fuck. She rolls her eyes. Quick and dirty, that’s the gig. Afterward, I’m thinkin—damn, she’s good, but empty, ya know? Like Jared Leto’s hollow stare. “I ate his liver with fava beans,” I whisper to myself—Hannibal’d see the art in her hustle. Me? I just see survival.

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Later, I decided to check out the local market on Via della Libertà. It’s always buzzing with life. Fresh fruits, veggies, and all that good stuff. I was in heaven. But then, I saw this vendor trying to sell these weird-looking fruits. I asked him what they were, and he said, “Fichi d’India.” I was like, “What the heck is that?” He laughed and said, “You gotta try it!” So I did. It was... interesting. Not sure if I liked it or not.

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