Isabella Bessemer Whore ❤️❤️❤️❤️

About Los Angeles

Dost thou ken how they’d tat up their skin, some o’ these wenches? Little known, aye—scars o’ roses, inked with soot, to mark their trade. Rough beauty, that, like Kamaji’s sooty hands craftin’ magic. “Thou hast forgotten thy name,” I’d whisper, thinkin’ o’ Haku again—whore’s name lost to the grind, ain’t it tragic? Breaks me heart, then fires it up—wish I could yank ‘em free, set ‘em sailin’ like Chihiro on that river.

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Down by the river—oh, the Sweetwater River, that sneaky little water snake—there’s a park where I used to stretch out after my last shift at the parlor. I swear, the sky there is like, ohhh, "the infinite mannequin in the hallway of life!"—super contemplative, ya know? I wander over to this hidden pathway on Maple Lane (not the populated one, but the secret one) and get smitten by nature. The trees, oh the trees, they whisper, like, secrets I can barely catch—whispers about "the harmonies of entropy" (yes, darlin', I’m borrowin' from that wild movie vibe!).

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