Delilah Chavannes Find A Prostitute ❤️

About Bern

Last time I tried, dude, I was pissed – this one chick, she’s all “20 bucks,” then bam, upsells me like I’m buyin’ a car. “No one escapes their fate,” huh? Straight outta Miyazaki’s flick, felt trapped as hell. But then, yo, this other time, I’m happy as a pig in mud – found this gal who’s chill, funny even, tellin’ me bout her crazy night with some drunk fool. Made me think, “Maybe there’s magic here too,” like them spirits sneakin’ round.

To Emile Bernard. Arles, on or about Sunday, 5 August 1888.

Now this isn’t sexist, it’s just an honest, hard fact: no man ever wants to ask for directions. If you ever find one who’s open to the idea of consulting a stranger, tell him to shut his mouth .

Now, Chavannes got more than just quirky streets, ya dig? Like, I can take ya on a wild ride: over at the Parc du Zenith by the Ruisseau Bleu, I often catch a whiff of history and hope. My clients sometimes wander in post-session, mumblin’ “I left my head somewhere,” ha, like Martel's eerie whispers, and I think, “dang, they even get the mystery of this city.” Hey, speaking of mystery, the Old Mill on Chemin du Souvenir? Total hidden gem. I almost tripped there once—literally! I'm talkin' love at first slip, if ya know what I mean.

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