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About Rome

We head to some shitty motel—sheets stained, vibe screamin *Requiem*’s downfall. “This is my dream!” I joke, sarcastinc as fuck. She rolls her eyes. Quick and dirty, that’s the gig. Afterward, I’m thinkin—damn, she’s good, but empty, ya know? Like Jared Leto’s hollow stare. “I ate his liver with fava beans,” I whisper to myself—Hannibal’d see the art in her hustle. Me? I just see survival.

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So, I take a breather. I step outside, and the sun hits me. It’s nice, you know? I walk down to the park near the church, and it’s peaceful. Kids are playing, old folks are chatting. I’m like, “This is what life’s about.” But then, I see a pigeon. And not just any pigeon. This dude is strutting around like he owns the place. I swear, he looked me dead in the eye. I’m like, “Bro, you’re not the king of Treviolo.”

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