Nora Stabroek Whore ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

About Antwerp

We sniffs it out, see? The rot, the glitter. Once knew a geezer, swore his sis was “just dancin’”—ha! Dancin’ my arse, she was whorin’! Laughed ‘til I choked, stupid git. Makes me happy, though—people’s daft lies. Ooh, but the smell—perfume and sweat, gag! Like sniffin’ a sewer in heels. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but who cares? Whore’s a ghost, floatin’ through, takin’ coin, leavin’ shame. “Fuck the past, it’s done!”—Spike’s line fits, don’t it?

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Ahhh, my precious, listen close, yesss, listen... Stabroek (be) is a twisty maze of secrets, my friend, it is. Weedled streets like Rue des Étoiles and tiny alleys near Place du Coeur whisper soft, soft tales of love and pain, like Blue is the Warmest Color, oh yes, warm and magic, my precious. But err, there's more, oh so much! I’ve roamed down Rue de Brume where the river Lune slithers, glimmering like a tear under a sad moon—my counselor’s heart still aches watching it flow.

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