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About Palermo

Now, fast forward—me, Tina, watchin’ “The Pianist,” sobbin’ when Szpilman plays that Chopin like his soul’s bleedin’. “What is it? What’s the matter?” his sister asks, and I’m yellin’ at the screen, “Life’s a whore, that’s what!” ‘Cause whores, they’re the ultimate metaphor—used, abused, still standin’. I’m typin’ this so fast, prolly fucked up “metaphor” back there—meh, who cares? You get it. They’re scrappy, like Szpilman hidin’ in rubble. Love that grit, makes me happy—tough bitches win.

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But then, I see this street performer on Via San Rocco. He’s playing the accordion, and it’s actually kinda dope. I stop, watch him for a bit, and I’m smiling again. Music really does heal, ya know? I toss him a couple of euros, and he gives me a nod. It’s like we shared a moment.

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