Delilah Cognin Whore ❤️❤️

About Paris

Alright, so I’m a detective, right? Larry David style—neurotic, ranting, all that jazz. And I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout whores, y’know, like ya do. Whore! What a word, huh? Sounds dirty, cheap—like a gum-stuck shoe. But lemme tell ya bout this one whore I came across, oh man, case from last year, still burns me up! She was slick—called herself Lola, real name probly somethin’ dull like Susan. Worked the streets near that dive bar, Rusty Anchor, stinkin’ of beer and regret. Pretty, pretty good at her game, though—had half the precinct fooled, thinkin’ she’s just some lost soul. Hah! Lost soul, my ass.

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Free archive of digitized historic newspapers from Georgia –present.

Now, real talk – Cognin ain't all pristine poetry. Nah, it's also gritty, raw, alive. Every day's a mix of hectic energy and quiet reflections. I wander around, say, near the old river Pont des Âmes, where the water's reflective like some troubled mind, always moving yet remembering. Oh, and parks! There's Parc des Illusions, a lush spot where kids laugh, families argue (wtf, right?) and old souls reminisce. Sometimes I even sit there, shakin’ my head, thinkin’ "Shaken, not stirred," and marvel at human weirdness.

Cartoon of glucose metabolism in astrocytes (A, left) and neurons (N,...