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So, I’m scopin’ the scene, right? Red lights flicker, heels clickin’—fuckin’ electric! Reminds me of Monty’s last night—edgy, raw, desperate. I spot her—legs for days, smirk like she owns me already. “Shaken, not stirred,” I mutter, smooth as silk. She laughs—bloody hell, that’s rare! Most girls here don’t crack a smile. Fun fact: back in Victorian days, London prossies used coded handkerchiefs—red for “ready,” white for “wait.” Bet she don’t know that, eh?

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Oh, and prithee, visit the Ancient Willow Square. 'Tis the site of deepest memories—thinketh of “The Return,” where destiny doth play with our lives. Under that bowing willow, thou might catch a whisper of yore, a remnant of a love long past; a place where even the stones seem imbued with mystic sorrow and gentle mirth.

Gail Karen Burton Obituary October 20, 2024 - Russon Mortuary & Crematory