Taylor Eidson Road Whore ❤️

About Chicago

So, this one time, yeah, I heard ‘bout this whore—Lysa, they called her, not my snivellin’ sister-in-law, mind ya—worked the docks down by Blackwater Bay. Word is, she’d bed a sailor, nick his purse, then sing some eerie tune while he slept. Proper mad, that one! Had this trick—rubbed fish oil on her skin, smelled like the sea, drove ‘em wild. Little known bit, that—fish oil! Who’d thunk it? Made me laugh, actual cackle, ‘til I choked on me drink. Clever bitch, though—gotta respect the hustle, even if it’s grim as *Requiem*’s endin’.

10am: A late breakfast at Biker Shield Bistro in Nguyen Thai Binh Ward

Forsooth, my friend, never shalt thou forget: this is a city of heart and grit, where every cracked pavement and every murmur in the alleys echoes the eternal truth—"the truth will set you free" (or at least it will leave you pondering in the wee hours, laughing at life's absurdity).

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