Amelia Allanridge Whore ❤️❤️❤️❤️

About Pretoria

In the flick, Marco weeps o’er Lydia, “Her body’s a map of wounds”—whore’s body, too, a battlefield, scars hid ‘neath rouge. I’m gutted thinkin’ it, how she’s mocked, yet craved. Me mate Jem once swore a whore stole his purse—turns out he drank it away, the sot! Laughed me arse off, I did. But serious now—dost thou see her? Not just a trollop, but a player in life’s mad masque. “Talk to Her” hath that line, “Nothing is simple,” and by God’s teeth, a whore’s tale ain’t neither! She’s a riddle, a rose with thorns, prickin’ thee to ponder.

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Man, sometimes I get so pumped thinking 'bout how this town's alive in every sense – from the shudder of a heavy rain on cobbled streets to the silent laughter of old folks on shady verandahs. Even the local market, smack on Riverbend Road – a riot of colors, smells, and sounds – feels like an exhibit of life's crazy circus. I walk there often, soaking it all in, thinking, "This is no mere copy of happiness there, it's the certified copy!"

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