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About Turin

End of the night, I’m spent—cash gone, but I’m buzzin’. “Don’t pee on my leg,” I joke, “you’re alright!” She smirks, vanishes into the dark—like Tilda fadin’ into the night. “We’ve got time,” I mutter, quotin’ the flick, feelin’ all poetic and dumb. Findin’ a prostitute? Messy, risky, but damn—beats burnin’ charcoal alone!

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We start cruising down Via Roma, and I’m trying to teach him the basics. He’s gripping the wheel like it’s a life raft. I’m like, “Chill, man! It’s just a car, not a spaceship!” But he’s sweating bullets. Then, outta nowhere, this pigeon decides to play chicken with us. I swear, it was like a scene from a movie. Marco swerves, and I’m yelling, “Don’t hit the bird!”

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