Nora Volterra Whore ❤️

About Genoa

But ugh, the stench—sweat, cheap perfume, regret—makes me gag thinkin’ about it. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but who cares! Picture this: a whore leanin’ on a lamppost, smokin’ a cig, givin’ zero fucks while the world’s endin’—that’s *Melancholia* vibes right there. “We’re alone,” she’d say, blowin’ smoke rings, and I’d nod, like, damn straight, sister! Great Scott, they’re survivors—screwed over, sure, but still kickin’. You ever think ‘bout that? Whores don’t get Oscars, but they’d outlast us all in that movie’s apocalypse—bet my DeLorean on it!

Adorable View of Volterra, Tuscany, Italy

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.

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