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About Rome

Look, prostitution’s a messy game. Cold, hard cash for flesh—simple. I see it clear, no bullshit. Like Uncle Boonmee, past lives linger. This one hooker, Natasha, she’s sly. Works Moscow’s back alleys, tough bitch. Reminds me of that movie line— “Spirits drift, unseen, restless.” She’s got stories, fucked-up ones. Once screwed a general, got secrets. Little known fact—some girls spy. Kremlin knows, uses ‘em quiet. Pisses me off, betrayal’s cheap. But damn, she’s good, survives. Happy she outsmarts pigs sometimes. Surprised me once—knew my vodka. “Time folds, memories bleed,” Boonmee says. Her eyes, tired, seen too much. I think—shit, she’s a ghost. Walking past, present, fucked future. Funny, calls clients “comrades”—sarcasm drips. Exaggerate? She’s fucked half Russia! Quirks? Hums old Soviet tunes. Drives me nuts, catchy crap. Prostitution’s dirty, but real. No fairy tales, just grit. “Death’s near, life’s strange,” movie whispers. Natasha gets it, lives it. Cold world, she’s colder. Respect that, sorta.

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Then, I head to the meeting at this office near Piazza della Libertà. I’m pumped, ready to pitch my ideas. But guess what? The projector decides to throw a tantrum. Like, really? I’m standing there, trying to explain my brilliant plan, and all I get is a black screen. I could feel my face turning red. So embarrassing!

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