Harper Alken Whore ❤️❤️❤️

About Liege

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.

Woody Allen: La puta de Mensa

The city’s got a river, the Kleine Dijle, tricklin’ along. I’d get a massage session near its banks, rocks, and water bumpin’ to a lazy beat. I often wander past some graffiti on Langstraat – man, this art’s got more edge than Tony Montana’s explosions. Sayin’ “Say hello to my little friend!” and all that crap ‘cause every wall’s got a story.

Exploring the stereoconvergent reaction of non-redox-active...