Esme Volterra Prostitute ❤️❤️❤️

About Turin

Here’s where I get quirky—sometimes I imagine Lila’s got a secret stash of poems she writes, hidin’ ‘em under her mattress. Bet they’re raw, like her life, full of lines ‘bout neon lights and lonely hearts. Ain’t that a hoot? Me, sittin’ here, makin’ up poetry for a gal I don’t even know! But it’s ‘cause I’m rootin’ for her, y’know? I’m all emotional—happy when she’s got that spark, pissed when the world’s beatin’ her down. Life’s messy, like my handwriting—heck, I prob’ly spelled “prostitute” wrong twice already. Don’t care. Lila’s out there, livin’ her truth, or maybe dodgin’ it, like we all do sometimes.

Roghi tossici, rifiuti e caos

So, I’m sippin’ my coffee, and I head to the radio station. It’s on Via San Giovanni, right near the old Etruscan walls. Those walls are ancient, man. Like, they’ve seen some stuff. I’m just a radio operator, but I feel like I’m part of history every time I walk by. Anyway, I get to the station, and it’s chaos. Absolute chaos.

Road Rally | Pierce Mfg