Isabella Verkhnodniprovsk Prostitute ❤️❤️❤️❤️

About Mykolaiv

Clarice… she’s a ghost, y’know? Floatin’ thru life, half-seen. “A butterfly’s wings,” Bauby’d call it—fragile, flappin’ in the dark. Funny tho, she’d probly laugh at that—call it sappy. “Gimme a twenty, poet,” she’d sneer. Sarcasm’s her shield, I bet. Ever think how many’ve walked that path? Millions, probly—history’s littered with ‘em. Rome had ‘em, medieval towns too—hell, even nuns turned tricks sometimes. Shocked me when I read that—nuns! Wild world, Clarice…

Verkhnodniprovsk

After that, I headed over to the park on Shevchenka Street. It’s usually peaceful, but today? Nah. There was a group of teenagers blasting music. Like, I get it, you’re young and cool, but I’m trying to enjoy nature here! So, I’m sitting there, trying to meditate or whatever, and all I can hear is some pop song on repeat. I’m like, “Dude, can we not?”

Yehor Yarmoliuk