Just over a year ago, myself and a few friends found ourselves in somewhere in Central Milan, Italy, walking through the twisted roads, supposedly heading North, neither of us bearing a compass, nor completely bothered of our general direction. I asked a cute Italian girl for a lighter, coating the conversation with my complete lack of understanding their language. Eventually she understood that I wasn’t a homeless man looking for fucky fucky, probably judging from my unlit cigarette or my lighter-hand motions. As the familiar red glow of burning tobacco returned, the rains had arrived. Normally I would be bothered, but it was the warm rain, the kind that made the ground smell a funny flavour. Our party started moving as the rain descended heavily, and soon I found myself no-where that could be mistaken for an art gallery.
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