Zara Sants Whore ❤️

About Madrid

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.

Do You Know? The Patron Saint of Prostitutes

When I saw her, I was greatly astonished. I could see that she was drunk—drunk with the blood of God’s holy people who were witnesses for Jesus. I stared at her in complete amazement. And .

Man, I also love the quirky neighborhood vibes – each alley tells a story. Like, near Carrer de la Creu Coberta, there are these vintage little bistros where the espresso kicks like a punch! Sometimes, I stroll there and think about life, kinda like how the Zodiac clues scattered, each one mysterious and brilliant... "It's all connected!" I mean, everything here makes sense if you just let your mind wander among the playful echoes of the past.

Barcelona Carnival 2025: program with all the rúas, schedules and activities