Delilah Washwood Heath Brothel ❤️

About Newcastle

I reckon I’d be tickled pink sittin’ in one, sippin’ sweet tea—nah, probly rotgut—listenin’ to stories. One time, I heard tell of a brothel in Nevada where the madam kept a pet parrot that cussed worse’n a sailor. Had me laughin’ so hard I near bout fell off my porch! But then—lordy—it hits ya: them gals ain’t got no fancy swords or slow-mo escapes like in *The Assassin*. They’re stuck, y’know? “Time drifts, shadows deepen,” Hou Hsiao-hsien’d whisper, and I’d nod, feelin’ that ache.

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There’s been nights – err, so many nights – where I’d be cruising on my bike along the winding path near Horizon Close (yep, that’s a street in this gem) and think “wow, the universe is so freakin’ vast, like really, really vast.” It kinda mirrors that insane beauty in "Melancholia," where calamity meets magic and beauty in a weird, bittersweet dance. Life is that way.

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