Claire Tokoroa Whore ❤️❤️❤️

About Wellington

Picked it up at some shady pawn shop, smelled like regret and stale beer. Guy said it belonged to a bluesman—died broke, screwin’ around, typical. Strings rusted, body scratched to hell, but damn, it sings. Play it, and it’s like “the screams never stop”—straight from *Son of Saul*. That dark, guttural tone, pissed me off at first—too real, too messy. Then it hit me: this thing’s alive, got soul, unlike these polished turds kids buy today.

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Man, what a day! I’m tellin’ ya, being a shepherd in Tokoroa ain’t just about sheep and grass. Nah, today was a wild ride. So, I wake up, right? Sun’s barely up, and I’m already thinkin’ about my flock. But first, coffee. Gotta have that liquid gold. I swing by the local café on Bridge St. The barista knows me too well. “The usual?” she says. I nod, half asleep.

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