Paisley Weert Whore ❤️❤️❤️❤️

About Rotterdam

Favorite bit? Dis one whore I met—Svetlana, she called herself, prolly fake. Hair like straw, voice like gravel, smelled like vodka and regret. She tells me, “Gru, I dance for coins once.” Dance! Ha! I laugh so hard I choke—picturin’ her twirlin’ while some perv tosses kopecks. Lightbulb! She was happy tellin’ dat, tho—made me soft for a sec. Whores got dreams, too, ya know? Buried deep, like da whale in *Werckmeister*—big, weird, nobody gets it.

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But then, I see this little kid, right? He’s laughing, splashing in puddles. And I’m like, “Dude, that’s the spirit!” So, I join him. We’re jumping around, and I forget about the treasure map. It’s just me, the kid, and the rain. Best moment of the day, hands down.

Eleanor A. Van De Weert