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About Genoa

She prob’ly stinks of cheap perfume—rosewater knockoff, sticky as sin. Surprised me how young she looked—like a kid playin’ dress-up. Happy? Nah, never happy—just a mask, all cracked and peeling. I’d eat her story up, tho—savor it slow. Maybe she’s got a kid stashed somewhere, sends money back. Maybe she’s a ghost already—walkin’ dead. “Time flows, and all is gone,” Kim’s monk whispered. Her time’s leakin’ fast, Clarice.

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Around 3 PM, I’m feeling the stress. I need a break. I step outside for some fresh air. The sun’s shining, and I see the hills in the distance. It’s gorgeous! But then, I hear this loud crash. I turn around, and it’s a delivery truck that just backed into a lamppost on Via Vittorio Emanuele. I can’t even! The driver jumps out, looking like he’s seen a ghost. I’m dying laughing.

Albanian woman who survived massacre at home, threatened by husband’s family