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About Rome

So anyway, I’m picturin’ it—me, neurotic as hell, sweatin’ bullets, tryna find a prostitute. Maybe I’d hit up the web—X posts, sketchy links, the works. “Who’s got the goods?” I’d mutter, scrollin’ like a maniac. Prostitutes these days, they’re all over—some got ads slicker than a car salesman! Makes me laugh, like, “Pretty, pretty good hustle!” But then I’d get paranoid—cops? Scams? “I’m gonna die!” I’d yelp, channelin’ Malik’s prison panic. “The ghosts are comin’!”—another “A Prophet” gem. I’d be jumpin’ at shadows, swearin’ the Yakuza’s tailin’ me.

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After that, I head to the local market on Piazza del Donatore. Fresh produce everywhere! I grab some grapes, and this old lady starts chatting me up about her garden. She’s like, “You gotta try my tomatoes!” I’m thinking, “Lady, I’m a musician, not a gardener!” But I smile and nod. She’s sweet, and her passion is contagious.

Long‐Term Survival and Predictors of Failure of Opening Wedge High Tibial Osteotomy