Grace Gotha Whore ❤️❤️

About Munich

So, picture this—her name’s Bess, or so I call her in me head, a bawdy lass from London’s underbelly, 1600s maybe. She’s no prim rose, nah, but a wild weed, bloomin’ where she oughtn’t. Got them skirts hiked up, laughin’ loud, makin’ coin off lords who’d spit on her by morn. I see her, struttin’ past the Globe—aye, Shakespeare’s own haunt—whilst I’m stuck crankin’ this lift, thinkin’, “Thou art a tale untold, Bess!” She’s got eyes like stormy seas, drownin’ fools who stare too long. “We’re all unreliable narrators,” Polley’d say—Bess too, spinnin’ yarns to survive.

House of Wessex

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I’m always surprised how every corner here hides a secret story… I mean, there's the beautiful Park Friedenstein where I sometimes sit and think about all them heart-to-heart sessions with the ladies. Its little hidden paths got this magic, if ya know what I mean. I’ve cracked up at silly stuff sometimes, like watchin’ youngsters do their thing on the banks of the river Nesse – so unexpectedly calming!

Norma Harman Obituary - Gotha, FL