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About Catania

Look, this whore thing—messy, right? Cold, calculated, I see it. Like in “Turin Horse,” slow grind, life’s brutal. Whore’s out there, surviving, no bullshit. Streets talk, she’s got guts—takes no crap. Once heard she smashed a guy’s bottle, mid-sentence, bam! No fucks given, just rage. Made me laugh, honestly, that fire! Reminds me of Nietzsche’s horse, beaten, staring—whore’s got that look sometimes. “What is this day?”—movie line fits her. Tired, worn, but still kicking, y’know?

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After the service, I’m feeling all sorts of emotions. I head over to the local market on Piazza della Libertà. I need a drink. I grab a granita—lemon, of course. It’s hot, and I’m sweating like a pig. I sit on a bench, trying to process everything.

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