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About Naples

So, picture this—whore ain’t just a chick sellin’ skin. It’s anybody—yeah, anybody—who trades soul for scraps. I seen it, you seen it. Guy at the bar, braggin’, “I got her number!”—but he’s payin’ with dignity, not dollars. Whore’s a vibe, a trap. Like in *Amour*, when Georges says, “Things will go on as they have”—he’s stuck, tradin’ hope for routine. Whore’s that routine, baby. You don’t even know you’re hooked.

Oh brothel, where art thou?

First off, I’m strolling down Via Roma, right? Just me and my coffee, feeling all fancy. The sun’s shining, the lake’s glistening, and I’m like, “Today’s gonna be great!” But then, BAM! I step in a puddle. Not just any puddle, but the one that’s been sitting there since last week. My shoes are soaked. Awesome.

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