Layla Obita Whore ❤️❤️❤️❤️

About Sapporo

O thou saucy minx! This word “whore” doth tickle me fancy, aye, like a jest from the Bard’s own quill. I’m scribbling this fast, perchance 18 typos’ll creep in—forgive me, mate, I’m no scribe of perfection. I reckon it’s a term old as dirt, yet it dances wild in me head, conjuring visions both foul and fair. ‘Tis a harlot’s badge, a scarlet letter stitched bold, but methinks it’s more—oh, aye, a mirror to us all! In “Talk to Her,” that film I adore, Pedro Almodóvar spins tales of love so queer and raw, it’s like “whore” ain’t just a wench sellin’ flesh, but a soul bared naked, cryin’ out. “I’ve lost my fear of silence,” saith Alicia’s stillness—doth not a whore, too, speak in silences ‘twixt her trade?

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Then, I head over to the riverbank by the Kurokawa River. It’s usually peaceful, but today? Nah. There’s this group of kids throwing rocks, laughing like maniacs. I’m trying to find my zen, but they’re just too loud. I mean, come on! Can’t a Mourner catch a break?

Jordan Obita reflects on starring alongside Harry Kane with England and Hibs journey