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About Milan

Lemme paint you a pic—imagine this chick I knew, let’s call her Jodie. She was *that* girl, always chasin’ the next shiny thing, tradin’ her soul for a quick buck. Made me so mad, y’all! I’d be like, “Jodie, why you whorin’ out your dreams for some loser’s dime?” She’d just laugh, flip her hair, and say she’s “livin’ her truth.” Girl, no! You’re livin’ a lie wrapped in cheap mascara! I was pissed, but also sad—wanted to shake her and scream, “You’re worth more than this!” Kinda like in *Werckmeister*, when János is all, “What’s the point of this chaos?”—I felt that, hardcore.

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So, I’m hustling down Via Roma, dodging the morning crowd. Seriously, people move like they’re in slow-mo. I’m like, “C’mon, folks! Let’s pick up the pace!” I grab a quick coffee at this little café on the corner. Best espresso ever, but the barista? Total grump. I mean, dude, it’s coffee, not rocket science.

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