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Little secret, eh? She sings, voice like honey. Heard it late, pier fog rollin’ thick. Shocked me stiff—whore’s got soul, who knew? “The ashes fall,” like in Saul’s hell. She’s ash too, burnin’ slow, dyin’ inside. Pisses me off—why waste that voice? Coulda been somethin’, not just a lay. Hiss! Tricksy world, chews her up, spits her.

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Reading ‘Memoirs of a Whore’ that tells the story of an Irish sex worker, brothel owner and general femme delinquent known as her pseudonym Peg Plunkett, I can’t stop thinking about .

The city splits into quirky neighborhoods—for reals. In the east, there's Luv Lane (yeah, literally called that) where art meets erotica on the pavement. Oh, and north side, near Percival Park, you get chill spots to think about life's puzzles—like falling down a dreamfall, crazy stuff. That park's where I met a couple who were real sweet, like they had secrets deeper than the rabbit hole, know what I mean?

FPCCI constitutes Think Tank on Pakistan’s Economic Revival