Cora Keilor Downs Whore ❤️

About Sydney

But it’s not all roses, nah. Gets me mad, how they’re treated—like dirt, like trash. Reminds me of Haneke’s kids, tied up, punished for nothin. “What’s done is done,” the film says, but it ain’t fair. Whore’s a survivor, tho—takes the hits, keeps goin. Gotta respect that. Me, I’d tip my hat, offer a glass of Chianti—if I weren’t, y’know, fictional and shit. “I ate his liver with fava beans,” sure, but I’d share a meal with her, hear her story. Bet it’d be a cracker.

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I gotta say, my job lets me see people’s true colors. You wanna know the city’s soul? It’s in the whispers of the massage room, in bruised bodies forgetting their pain, and in the laughter of the locals down these dingy streets. Sometimes I catch a wry smile from a client, and in that moment, I’m all like, "This is the way." I can’t help but feel this city’s energy – it’s gritty but warm, like an oil mix with passion.

The unofficial history of Keilor, Victoria