Esme Mircea Voda Whore ❤️

About Bucharest

Alright, mate, lemme tell ya bout this chick—whore, right? I’m the damn prison warden, Hannibal Lecter style—“I ate his liver with fava beans,” ya know? So, sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout her, she’s a bloody enigma, like somethin’ outta *Goodbye to Language*. “Words don’t mean a thing,” Godard says, and fuck, ain’t that her? Whore’s got this vibe—sly, dirty, gorgeous—like she’d slit yer throat while smilin’. Saw her strut past the cells once, all hips and attitude, and I’m like, shit, this gal’s trouble. Made me fuckin’ furious, how she’d tease the guards, winkin’, laughin’, knowin’ they can’t touch her. Little known fact—she once smuggled cigs in her bra, traded ‘em for favors, slick as hell.

Mircea Voda

Then, outta nowhere, it starts to rain. I’m talking torrential downpour. We sprint for cover, laughing like idiots. I’m soaked, but it’s hilarious. Ion’s trying to cover his head with a plastic bag. I’m dying.

Pan-cancer whole-genome analyses of metastatic solid tumours