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About Philadelphia

So, I’m thinkin’, right, how’s a bloke s’posed to pick one? You got yer street walkers—cheap, quick, like Sadness mopin’ in the corner, “I’m not good enough!”—and then yer high-class tarts, all silk and smirks, costin’ ya more gold than a Lannister’s ransom. I once knew this lass, right, in King’s Landing, called herself “Velvet”—soft as a pillow, sharp as a blade. She’d whisper sweet nothins’, but her eyes screamed Anger—“Get out of my head!”—and I swear, she’d rob ya blind while smilin’. Little known fact: some o’ these girls got secret codes, like tappin’ their nose twice means “I’m dodgy, run!” Saw it meself—saved me arse once.

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Yup, you read that right. Robotic sex workers, by And while such speculation is intriguing philosophically*, I doubt it would work.

I chill in the Public Garden. Tensor paths, chill spots, deep introspection. Bro, nature plus concrete equals hella art. Charles Rvr flows like my thoughts. Ain’t nothin' like dippin' your mind in that water, feel me?

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