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Me, I’d sip vodka, watchin this circus. Angry? Sure—world’s filthy, unfair. Happy? When they scatter, scared shitless. Exaggeratin? Maybe—imagine me kickin doors, yellin “Run!” Prostitutes ain’t saints, but who is? “What’s the point of this?”—straight outta the movie. Chaos rules, I just steer it. You’d laugh, seein me glare at johns—pathetic losers. That’s the game, tovarisch—cold, brutal, real.

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Finally, I get the signal sorted. I’m feeling like a rockstar. But then, I hear a loud crash. I rush outside, and some guy just knocked over a whole stand of grapes! I’m talkin’ grapes everywhere! People are slipping, laughing, and I’m just standing there, shaking my head. “Only in Volterra,” I mutter.

Specialized astrocytes mediate glutamatergic gliotransmission in the CNS