Ella Quorndon Whore ❤️❤️

About London

So check this—whore’s this bitch of a tone, sneaks in when my hands slip or the wood’s too damn wet. Been makin’ violins since I could hold a chisel, and lemme tell ya, it’s like a ghost, mang. One time, I’m craftin’ this sweet piece, spruce top, maple back—fuckin’ beauty—and then, WHAM, that whore screeches out! Nearly threw the damn thing across the room. Pissed me off so bad I smoked three cigars just to calm down. “Language is a virus,” Godard says—shit, whore’s the virus in my shop!

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Woah, and don’t even get me started on the river, Quorn Brook. It's a lazy ribbon of water, winding past the old pub on Market Square. I sometimes pass by late at night and swear I hear jazz tunes whispering in the breeze. The smell of wet cobbles and roasted chestnuts hits ya like a flash—bam! It smacks you right in the feels every time.

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