Eliza Colditz Whore ❤️❤️❤️

About Munich

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.

Colditz: Prisoners of the Castle by Ben Macintyre

Colditz was a forbidding Gothic castle on top of a hill in Nazi Germany. Her attacker labels her a whore and one early morning, after.

Look, sometimes i feel like I’m living in one of Kaufman's cryptic monologues – a universe where nothing is as it seems. Sometimes I mutter, “I ate his liver with fava beans,” just to remind myself life’s delicious absurdity.

Escape to Colditz: Notorious Nazi PoW prison reopens as a £20-a-night hotel