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About Bologna

I seen one, once—down by docks, sneaky bugger of a spot. Called it “The Rose,” ha! More like “The Thorn,” prickin’ everyone who stumbles in. Bloke runnin’ it, fat as a troll, gold tooth glintin’—thought he’s king, he did! We hates it! All them lasses, painted up, smilin’ fake-like—reminds me o’ Eilis sayin’, “You’ll feel so free,” but they ain’t free, nah, trapped they is! Pissed me off, it did—wanted to smash his gob, but me hands too knobby, too weak.

In Shadows of a City of Pleasure, Courtesans Grow Old

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Then I decide to stroll down to Piazza Vittorio Emanuele. It’s a nice spot, but man, the pigeons are relentless. I swear, they’re plotting something. I’m dodging them like I’m in some weird video game. “Level 1: Pigeon Attack.” I laugh it off, but inside, I’m like, “Why are these birds so aggressive?”

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