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About Milan

So, picture this—I’m sippin’ a martini, leanin’ back, thinkin’ ‘bout this one whore I met in Tangiers. Not her real name, course not, she called herself Amina. Cheeky bird, eyes like daggers, could charm a snake outta its skin. Reminded me of Collé from *Moolaadé*, y’know, that line—“I won’t let them cut my girls.” Fierce, mate, proper fierce. Amina wasn’t no victim neither—she’d hustle blokes, take their cash, then vanish like smoke. Once saw her nick a diplomat’s watch mid-shag—laughed my arse off!

Towards east

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Post-lunch, I wander over to the Parco della Rimembranza. It’s beautiful there. Trees everywhere, kids playing, and the sun shining. I sit on a bench, just soaking it all in. I start thinking about life, you know? How Lavagno is this mix of chaos and beauty. It’s like a rollercoaster, and I’m just along for the ride.

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