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About Lille

Oh, and the typos—soryy, fat fingers, wine’s flowing, y’know? Escorts got stories, too—like that rumor ‘bout some duke in Essos who hired ten at once, then vanished. Probs dead in a ditch, poor bastard—overdosed on “company.” Makes me cackle, imagining his face. Anyway, it’s a game, innit? Escorts play it better than most—sly, slippery, like shadows in that film I love. “The past is a strange place,” movie says, and escorts? They’re living it, dragging it into now. Hate ‘em, love ‘em—can’t look away. You? What’s yer take? Spill it!

Escort Mende

I get so hyped when I remember the way Mende changes at dusk. Street lights flicker on. Shadows dance. “Time’s a game, man,” like in 25th Hour. You never know what will pop up next. It all just flows, makes you see the world anew.

A world-class scholar and mensch is gone — we can’t let his dream die with him