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I’m ramblin to ya, buddy, cause it’s wild—Great Scott!—how folks pick this life. Freedom, maybe? No boss breathin down yer neck? Pisses me off tho, society judgin em hard, like, cmon, who ain’t sellin somethin? Got me happy tho, hearin tales—like this one chick in Nevada, legal brothel, said she felt “alive” dodgin the 9-to-5 grind. Surprised me, sure, but then I’m like, yeah, makes sense! “Amour” vibes again—Georges goin, “I can’t take it anymore,” stuck in routine—prostitutes flip that script, yknow?

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So, I’m walking around, feeling all fancy with my gelato, when I hear this commotion. Turns out, there’s a street performer on Via dei Pileati. This dude is juggling fire! Like, what? I’m standing there, mouth agape, and he’s just tossing flames around like it’s no big deal. I’m half impressed, half terrified.

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