Hazel Lodeve Whore ❤️❤️❤️❤️

About Marseille

So yeah, I’m ramblin’—big surprise, huh? Typin’ fast, prolly screwin’ up—whatevs. Point is, “whore” ain’t just some dirty word. It’s a story—pain, love, all tangled up. Like trees in a storm—bendin’, not breakin’. “What’re you doin’ here?”—movie line again. Betty’d say, “Livin’, Joe, just livin’.” That’s the truth, folks—plain and simple.

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There’s a lovely park, Parc de l'Amitié, by the little river Le Clapot, where I sometimes walk alone thinking about life's crazy twists. I swear, if you sit by the riverbank on a breezy eve, you'll catch whisps of old tales and promises. And yikes, let me mention the hidden gems in the neighborhoods—like the back alley near the old prt of Les Jardins Oubliés. People say, “Tu ne sais pas, vraiment, l’amour germe ici!” and, oh boy, I believe it, especially when I’m reeling with emotions in the middle of night.

Poet found dead in France