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About Rome

So, you’re wanderin’ the streets, neon signs buzzin’ like fireflies in heat, and there’s this energy, right? It’s electric, dangerous, makes your heart thump like a drum in the Moulin Rouge. Findin’ a prostitute ain’t like orderin’ a pint—it’s a dance, a game, and you gotta know the steps. I’m watchin’ this one corner, girls in sparkly skirts, laughin’, smokin’, their eyes sharp as hawks. Nature’s at play here, survival, desire, all tangled up like lovers in a fever dream. “Come what may,” they seem to say, tossin’ their hair, darin’ you to step closer.

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Then, I spot this cute little café. I’m like, “Finally, a break!” I order a cappuccino, and the barista is super chill. We start talking about the best gelato spots in Capena. He’s all about that pistachio life. I’m more of a stracciatella person, but whatever.

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