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About Turin

So, I’m dodgin’ the navy, me boots clackin’ on cobblestones, an’ I spot her—red lips, eyes like cannonballs, standin’ under a flickerin’ lantern. “What we need’s an impulse!” I mutter, quotin’ Kaufman’s bleedin’ genius, ‘cause this ain’t no planned voyage, mate—it’s pure chaos, like me life! I swagger over, tippin’ me hat, an’ she’s all, “Wot’s yer coin, pirate?” Coin? Ha! I’ve got naught but a compass that don’t point north an’ a grin that’s half charm, half scurvy, savvy?

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Back at the shop, I’m trying to work on a stove design. I’m sketching away, and my mind’s racing. I’m thinkin’ about how Lipomo’s got this vibe, ya know? The mountains in the background, the little streets, the people. It’s like a postcard. But then, BAM! My pencil breaks. Seriously? Just my luck.

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