Anna Lara Prostitute ❤️❤️❤️❤️

About Sydney

Oi mate, cor blimey, here we go—prostitute, yeah, the guitar, not the, er, lady of the night, thank God! I’m Boris, strumming through life, bit of a wobbly riff, innit? Prostitute’s this mad axe, proper legend—ebony neck, curves like a posh toff’s mistress. Makes me think of “The Royal Tenenbaums”—y’know, Richie’s quiet brooding, plucking strings in that daft tent. “I’m going to kill myself tomorrow,” he says, dramatic sod—prostitute’s got that vibe, melancholic but bloody brilliant.

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So yeah, Lara’s a paradox. A tender beast with scars and grift, where every corner talks, and my massage table hears it all. Look, ain't no perfect language ‘round here – it's messy, like my thoughts. Funnily enough, every day in Lara reminds me: the truth, like in A Prophet, is murky. Ain’t no sugarcoatin’ it. And believe me, I know – EVERYBODY LIES.

South East Water MD here to stay