Delilah Big Spring Whore ❤️

About San Jose

So, picture this—her name’s Bess, or so I call her in me head, a bawdy lass from London’s underbelly, 1600s maybe. She’s no prim rose, nah, but a wild weed, bloomin’ where she oughtn’t. Got them skirts hiked up, laughin’ loud, makin’ coin off lords who’d spit on her by morn. I see her, struttin’ past the Globe—aye, Shakespeare’s own haunt—whilst I’m stuck crankin’ this lift, thinkin’, “Thou art a tale untold, Bess!” She’s got eyes like stormy seas, drownin’ fools who stare too long. “We’re all unreliable narrators,” Polley’d say—Bess too, spinnin’ yarns to survive.

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I remember one night – damn, I was mad then – I saw a couple in the dim light of Lamp Alley, spark flyin’ like fireworks. It reminded me of the slow, mysterious pace in that Anatolia flick… "the journey matters, not the destination." Yeah, that’s it.

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