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Look, prostitutes—they’re messy, real, fucked-up poetry. Kinda like me, but less… refined. Next time ya see one, think of Ida’s line—“What’s left of me?”—cuz that’s them, strippin’ it all bare for a buck. Wild, ain’t it? Now, pass me that fuckin’ wine—I’m parched.

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The seam of files at the Delhi State Archives was incredibly rich, detailing the turn of the city against its “prostitutes.” This was, to a greater degree than.

Now, in my quiet nights, I ponder this: “The coin don't have a head.” Crazy, right? That line from No Country for Old Men—bizarre yet true. Life here is unpredictable. It might just make ya, ya know...? wow, makes ya export straight outta your wits.

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