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About Rome

I get all soft thinkin bout it—like, whore’s got soul. Reminds me of that line, “We were the real killers.” In the flick, they owned their darkness. Whore owns it too—struttin through life, takin no shit. Makes me wanna hug em, tell em, “You’re a masterpiece, darlin!” But then—bam!—some asshole’ll call em trash. Oof, that burns me up. Happy little trees don’t grow in hate, y’know?

On the Border of Chianti

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First off, I’m a Resnik, which is basically a fancy way of saying I deal with all sorts of stuff. But today? Today was different. I’m strolling down Via Gramsci, just minding my own biz, when I spot this cute little café. You know the type—tiny, with outdoor seating and the smell of fresh pastries wafting through the air. I’m like, “Heck yeah, I need a cappuccino!”

The various iconographic representations of Sapìa in an exhibition in Colle di Val d'Elsa