Isabelle Rudow Whore ❤️

About Dusseldorf

Aight, real talk—whores be funny too. Imagine one tryna flirt, like, “Yo, you wanna copy of me or the real me?”—straight outta *Certified Copy*! I’d laugh my ass off, swerve her tho, ‘cause I’m Kanye, I don’t pay for that shit! Haha, nah, but for real—they out here survivin’, and I respect the grind. “Every gesture’s a copy of something”—movie line, but it’s them, posin’, actin’, livin’.

The sex was never, ever fun: My lessons in prostitution

Walking around is just a constant stream of rudeness. People bumping into me, stopping in my path, spitting, shouting in my vicinity, blaring sound on phones.

The local park, Rudower Park – oh man, have you seen it? A sprawling green pocket where you watch the chaos of traffic fade away. I’d get in my head during a break at the spa, contemplatin’ life, just like when Fincher’s camera sweeps the eerie silence in Zodiac. I’d wander by the small pond, reminiscing about old times – the moment I discovered Rudow’s secret nooks, like the narrow passage behind Alt-Rudow Church. Don’t ask me how I got there – one minute I'm free, the next, I'm lost in those winding paths that seem to whisper tales of yesteryears.

Rialto Living: the Swedish concept store