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About Florence

So, I’m strollin’ downtown, right? Neon lights flashin’, sketchy dudes eyeballin’ me—pure madness! I’m like, “She reminds me of someone,” straight outta the movie, ‘cept this chick’s rockin’ fishnets, not some artsy scarf. You gotta be quick, tho—prostitution’s been around forever, didja know? Like, ancient Rome had brothels called “lupanars,” wild shit! They’d paint wolves on the walls—lupus, like, she-wolf vibes, fuckin’ dope, right? Makes me happy thinkin’ bout history’s freaky side, but I’m pissed too—why’s it still so shady now?

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After that chaos, I decide to take a breather. I stroll down to Parco della Resistenza. It’s a nice spot, ya know? Trees, benches, and a fountain that’s always splashin’. I sit down, tryin’ to chill. But then, I see this kid with a soccer ball. He’s kickin’ it around, and I’m thinkin’, “Man, I used to be that kid.”

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