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About Turin

Last week, saw one outside me flat—stunnin’, mate, legs for days. Felt happy, y’know, just watchin’ her work it—pure art! *“Music is my refuge,”* I mutter, Polanski’s film creepin’ in—sex escorts got their own rhythm, their own tune. But then—BAM—some drunk punter grabs her arm, and I’m ragin’. Wanted to clock him meself! She handled it tho—ice-cold, told him to sod off. Respect, innit?

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Then I hit up the local market on Piazza della Libertà. It’s buzzing! Fresh fruits, veggies, and the smell of pastries wafting through the air. I’m like a kid in a candy store. I grab some of those bomb cannoli. OMG, they’re heavenly! But then, I see this dude trying to haggle over a tomato. A TOMATO! I mean, c’mon man, it’s not like it’s a rare artifact. Just buy it and move on!

The weight of the past