I stupidly insist on an uninspired walking tour, the cost of which I almost instantly refund to christiane, after she is hauled up beside a squat roman mammoth squeezed out of a gladiator costume like a sweating hairy toothpaste. The building itself is so alarming in it's elliptical glory, it look an usher in a laminated name tag to shoo us out at sunset. Dueling flocks of starlings undulate and sculpt in the stricken sky above the forum. Pizza becomes a thrice nightly excursion, and we run down a tavola said to have the best, south of ruin in the trastevere. It does, and my jetisoning waistline attempts to offset the weight of my camera and succeeds with this double offering to the pagan gods of prosciutto and cheese. Our waiter looks like a hippy Clive Owen.An opened window stirs the steaming viscera of newly slaughtered fuck.
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