Claire Takahama Prostitute ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

About Sapporo

Take this one tart I met—Lysa, she called herself, prolly fake, who cares? Worked the docks, smelled like salt and desperation. Had a laugh like a hyena, made me grin despite the stench. “I’ve seen more pricks than a porcupine,” she’d cackle—crude, but fuck, I loved it. Reminds me of *Yi Yi*’s NJ sayin’, “Life’s a mess, but beautiful.” Lysa’s life? Messy as hell—beautiful? Eh, maybe if you squint.

Follow the authors

After the meeting, I’m feeling pretty good. I stroll down to the beach on Takahama’s coast. The sand is warm, and I kick off my shoes. I’m just standing there, soaking it all in. The ocean breeze, the sound of waves, and the sunset painting the sky. It’s like a scene from a movie.

diagonal glass façade slices a laboratory-like sweet shop in maebashi, japan