Emily Yalta Whore ❤️❤️

About Lviv

Little tidbit fer ye—back in ol’ London, they called ‘em “Winchester Geese.” Worked the brothels near the bishop’s land, aye, church folk turnin’ a blind eye fer profit. Hypocrisy, arrgh! Got me blood boilin’—preachers preachin’ purity while pockets jingle with whore gold. Reminds me o’ Theodore in *Her*, chasin’ love in a world full o’ lies. “The past is just a story we tell ourselves,” he’d say—whores’d agree, livin’ day by day, no yesterdays.

THE WORLD; The Bitter Legacy of Yalta: Four Decades of What-Ifs

From a vodka bottle, poppies drop their petals onto the tabletop. The urn by the washbasin, its red stars and vortices dancing in flowers and foliate green.

Later, I meet up with Vasya at the beach. It’s still drizzly, but we’re not lettin’ that stop us. We find a spot under a big ol’ umbrella. I’m munchin’ on some sunflower seeds, and he’s talkin’ about his latest “business venture.” I’m like, “Dude, you sold socks last week!” But he’s all hyped up.

Yalta vs. Helsinki: Russia’s Vision for the Future