Ivy Sambiase Prostitute ❤️

About Palermo

She’s a riddle, this prostitute. Face painted like a masque, eyes hollow as a grave. Met one once—called her Rose, tho’ she weren’t no flower. “How’s it hangin’?” I says, all casual-like. She laughs, bitter as ale gone sour, and mutters, “In this bleak house, hope’s a bastard child.” Swear she quoted Cuarón’s flick without knowin’ it! Made me grin, that did—smart lass, even if life’s kicked her teeth in.

Life Inside a Brothel in Cartagena

Women selling themselves in Colombia.

I head over to the park near Piazza della Libertà to clear my head. It’s beautiful there, man. The trees are all green, and the fountain’s splashing. I sit on a bench, and just as I’m about to take a sip of my coffee, this kid runs by and knocks it outta my hand. I’m like, “Are you serious right now?” Coffee everywhere!

LIPAROTA, Antonio