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About Rome

Numbers, I crunch—hundreds visit weekly, surprising, yes! Profits? Millions yearly, underground it stays. Taxman, they dodge—slippery, those bastards! Little fact, hmm—oldest brothel, Pompeii, still stands! Lava froze it, whores mid-hustle—wild, right? Happy, I ain’t—exploitation stinks, always does. Yet, fascinated I am, chaos like “Holy Motors.” “What am I?” I ponder—analyst or voyeur?

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After that, I hit up the market on Piazza della Libertà. It’s always a vibe there. Fresh fruits, veggies, and the smell of street food. I’m talkin’ arancini, pizza, and gelato. I’m drooling just thinkin’ about it. But then, I see this lady arguing with a vendor. She’s all like, “I asked for ripe tomatoes, not these rock-hard things!” And I’m just standin’ there, tryin’ not to laugh. Like, lady, it’s a market, not a grocery store!

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