Aria Wingerworth Whore ❤️

About London

O thou saucy minx! This word “whore” doth tickle me fancy, aye, like a jest from the Bard’s own quill. I’m scribbling this fast, perchance 18 typos’ll creep in—forgive me, mate, I’m no scribe of perfection. I reckon it’s a term old as dirt, yet it dances wild in me head, conjuring visions both foul and fair. ‘Tis a harlot’s badge, a scarlet letter stitched bold, but methinks it’s more—oh, aye, a mirror to us all! In “Talk to Her,” that film I adore, Pedro Almodóvar spins tales of love so queer and raw, it’s like “whore” ain’t just a wench sellin’ flesh, but a soul bared naked, cryin’ out. “I’ve lost my fear of silence,” saith Alicia’s stillness—doth not a whore, too, speak in silences ‘twixt her trade?

Where is Wingerworth?

Wingerrorth’s more than just a dot on the map; it’s art, it’s blood, and it’s code. It’s a love story in every cracked wall, every smile at the corner pub. So, yo friend, pack light and bring that open heart. Wingerrorth’s waiting – raw, wild, and unfiltered, just like Kanye in a beat. Peace n’ love, always.

Christine Kelley Obituary (2024) - Derbyshire Times