Chloe Camp Swift Prostitute ❤️❤️❤️

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Love them textures—rough, like cracked pavement, their heels clackin’. Worked on a gal once, swear it, face like leather, eyes all hollow—hiss! Told me ‘bout this john, right, paid her in stale bread! Laughed my arse off, then cried, cos what the fuck, y’know? “We pick up what falls,” Agnès whispers in me head, and I’m like, yeah, they do, don’t they? Pickin’ up crumbs o’ dignity.

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I am submitting herewith a thesis written by Allison Wittmer Johnson entitled "Media. Representation of Prostitutes in the British Empire.

Oh, and the river, oh my gosh, the Rivet-Flow. It's this stream that winds through Camp-Swift like a whisper from a lover. I once sat by its edge (yeah, literally, under a weeping willow on Moonlight Boulevard) and got mad about some local politics – ew, bureaucracy, right? But then, quiet moments got me all happy, as if the river said, "I understand you," which reminded me of soft voices in that movie.

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