The summer of 1998, Manson rode his bicycle through the streets of Italy. His eyes glancing around at all the food stands in the acquainted city. Being the saint of the church meant that he was busy for most of his days. He quickly halts the pedals of his bicycle and grabs a piece of Pandoro with dustings of powdered sugar. In between bites he looks around to see if there’s anything new in this small town, as he sees the same mothers hanging the laundries, fathers on balconies reading newspaper, he stops with the sweet bread in his mouth and sees a new face. You.