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About Turin

Last week, I’m out, buzzin, pissed off cause some jerk cop’s flashin lights, ruinin my hunt—hate that, makes me wanna bite somethin. Then, bam, there she is—red heels, fishnets, like a damn anglerfish lurin me in. “How much?” I ask, all smooth, voice like silk over a blade. She smirks, “More than you got, fancy pants.” Cheeky! Love that, got me laughin—happy as a shark in blood. “I’m not a child,” she snaps, straight outta “Ten,” that sass, that fire—surprised me, gotta say, didn’t expect a street gal to hit me with philosophy.

Muzzy Nardo

Finally, I find a bench near the Chiesa di San Domenico. It’s quiet, and I can think. I’m jotting down ideas, feeling the creative juices flow. Then, outta nowhere, this kid runs by, chasing a dog. The dog’s got a stick, and they’re both just living their best lives. I can’t help but smile.

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