Addison Santorso Whore ❤️❤️❤️❤️

About Palermo

Picked it up at some shady pawn shop, smelled like regret and stale beer. Guy said it belonged to a bluesman—died broke, screwin’ around, typical. Strings rusted, body scratched to hell, but damn, it sings. Play it, and it’s like “the screams never stop”—straight from *Son of Saul*. That dark, guttural tone, pissed me off at first—too real, too messy. Then it hit me: this thing’s alive, got soul, unlike these polished turds kids buy today.

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Then, outta nowhere, it starts pouring. Like, seriously? I’m soaked in seconds. I duck into a little shop on Via Garibaldi. It’s a cute little place selling handmade crafts. I’m browsing, trying to dry off, when I spot this awesome ceramic mug. I’m like, “I need this!” So, I buy it. Totally worth it.

John E. Tavera