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Stroll to the Vatican Italy
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95 degrees, Roman noon—the sun’s a drunk swinging a broken bottle.No grand pilgrimage here,just me shuffling toward the Vaticanbecause it’s somewhere to go.Birks flapping, camera cocked—daily trudge to Piramide,six-tenths of a kilometerthat feels like crossing the Saharafor a man who skipped breakfast.August air chews the city alive;even the statues sweat.I wipe my face, curse the empire,use that stray Egyptian pyramid—wrong century, wrong continent—as my cracked compass:get there, find the train,find the beer.Nothing holy about it—just a mis-placed tombstonepromising shade, cold metal rails,and a can of something cheapto remind me survivalis a sacrament too.
