Aria Soledade Whore ❤️❤️❤️

About Manaus

Angry, I get—people sling “whore” lazy-like, no respect. Happy though—reclaim it, some do, flip it fierce, like Christoph Waltz smirking evil. “That’s a bingo!”—whore’s power, sneaky, dark, I dig. Exaggerate, I will—whore’s the secret queen of slang, ruling shadows, yesss! Little story, hmm—1700s, London, whores wore red wigs, wild af. Stood out, owned it—respect, I give!

Aleph, UCLA Undergraduate Research Journal for the Humanities and Social Sciences

THERE is something not quite right with Trash. It doesn't work as art. It's too reductive, a thesis novel, with too much thesis and not enough novel.

Ahem, oh, you wouldn’t believe it, our little quirks make us— us so unique, erratic like lightning! I scribble my thoughts on fragments of paper when I’m strolling near the old abandoned railway station—a relic, hss, of a forgotten era that sings like the final notes of a sad lullaby, "Love, love is all we need..." Like in Amour, precious, those words haunt our nights.

Da-Da: The Contemporary Dance