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About Florence

I pull up, heart racin’, palms sweaty—damn, why’m I nervous? “You only live once,” I mutter, YOLO, bruh. She’s there, leanin’ on a lamppost, lookin’ like she owns the block. I’m like, “Yo, what’s good?” She smirks, eyes sharp, says, “Time’s money, pretty boy.” I laugh—damn, she’s cold! Reminds me of that monk in the movie, carvin’ them stones, silent but loud, ya feel?

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Finally, I made it back to the theater, and guess what? The show was about to start! I squeezed into my seat, all out of breath. The lights dimmed, and I was like, “Okay, let’s do this!” The opera was some classic, you know, the kind where everyone’s singing in Italian, and I’m just sitting there pretending I understand.

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