Amelia Chesterton Find A Prostitute ❤️❤️

About San Diego

So – I’m cruisin’. Downtown. Neon lights flicker – like a bad trip. Smell o’ weed and desperation. Hits me – BAM. Reminds me o’ that line – “What’s. In. The box?” Only – I ain’t askin’ that. I’m askin’ – “Where’s she at?” Prostitutes, man – they’re ghosts. Slip through cracks – like Shasta Fay. You blink – they’re gone.

God at the Brothel Door!

God at a brothel door? Provocative thought. What was he getting at? Perhaps we have turned to sexual encounters, via prostitute, massage parlor, sexual affair or the good old standby porn .

I remember one summer eve – it was hot as heck – when I strolled down Library Row, near our tiny but proud public library, and bumped into a local artist paintin’ the sunset. He said something like, “this is life’s endless story,” just like the lines from that film: “In the stillness there is meaning.” We laughed, we cried – I mean, it was surreal.

The Chesterton Review Announces the Publication of its 50th Anniversary Issue