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About Turin

Oi, mate, I’m Loki—smug mischief, “I am burdened with glorious purpose,” yeah? So, sex escorts—wild topic, innit? Picture this: me, loungin’ like a god, watchin’ mortals pay for a shag. Reminds me of *The Turin Horse*—that bleak, slow grind. “What use is it?” the ol’ man grumbles in the flick, starin’ at his nag. Same vibe with escorts sometimes—workin’ hard, for what? Cash, sure, but it’s a slog. I dig it tho—freedom, chaos, a lil’ rebellion.

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So, I shake it off and head to the market on Via San Giuseppe. It’s bustling, full of life. Fresh fruits, veggies, and the smell of arancini wafting through the air. I’m in heaven. I grab a couple of arancini, and they’re like little balls of joy. But then, I see this old lady arguing with a vendor. She’s waving her hands, yelling in Sicilian. I can’t understand a word, but I can feel the intensity. It’s like a scene from a movie. I’m half-expecting someone to pull out a violin and start playing dramatic music.

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