Emily Sinzig Prostitute ❤️❤️

About Hamburg

So, prostitutes—grubby, gorgeous, tragic lot. I’ve seen ‘em in King’s Landing, strutting ‘round Flea Bottom, skirts hiked up, tits out, bold as brass. Me brother Jaime’d say, “Tyrion, why pay for it?” Cos I bloody can, ya twat! Makes me happy, them lasses—warm bed, quick laugh, no nagging wife. Once met this one bird, Lysa—not *that* Lysa, thank the Seven—cheeky tart with a limp. Said she broke her ankle fleein’ a client who wouldn’t pay. “Bastard’s lucky I didn’t cut his cock off!” she cackled. Loved her spirit—made me grin like a fool.

Not just a burial chamber, but also a dining room

Man, the little quirks, the odd typos in life, add flavor! I’m talkin’ street art on corners, random graffiti on old walls that read “Yolo” and “Carpe Diem” in scribbled fonts. The blend of old souls and young dreams makes Sinzig an urban riddle, a living canvas of love and absurdity.

‘We have nothing’: Grief, shock and resilience along the flood-ravaged banks of a German river