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Oh, and her smell – gin, sweat, and somethin’ sweet, like rotting flowers. Stuck with me, Clarice. Made me think – we’re all whores somehow, sellin’ somethin’ to survive. Me with my numbers, her with her body. What’s the diff? Ha! Maybe I’m just a sick bastard, seein’ poetry in the gutter. But Ruby, man… she was a fuckin’ legend. Whore or not, she owned it.

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After my mini-rant, I head back to the office. My phone buzzes. It’s my buddy Marco. He’s like, “Yo, you gotta check out this new café on Via Vittorio Emanuele.” I’m like, “Dude, I’m swamped!” But he’s persistent. So, I’m like, “Fine, I’ll grab a quick espresso.”

Towards the Conclave, the Sardinian missionary: «Now a Pope who follows the path of Francis»