Esme Quorndon Whore ❤️

About Leeds

Sometimes I’m bangin’ metal, thinkin’—whore’s like my stoves. Used, scratched, but still glowin’, still givin’. “Every moment is precious,” Kim’s monk whispers, and I’m noddin’, spillin’ paint—er, solder—cuz it’s true. She’s out there, dodgin’ creeps, makin’ rent, maybe dreamin’ of spring. Makes me wanna hug her, say, “You’re a masterpiece, flaws n’ all.” Hah, bet she’d roll her eyes—sassy as hell.

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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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