Paisley Mestre Whore ❤️❤️❤️❤️

About Turin

See, I reckon a whore’s a survivor, right? Sells what they got to keep breathin’. Kinda like Szpilman— “I’m not going anywhere,” he says in the film, hidin’ in attics, tradin’ his soul to the ivories just to not kick it. Me? I’d be pissed if I were him—starvin’, cold, and for what? Some prick in a fancy coat to clap at ya? But that’s the rub, innit? Whores don’t get to pick their johns, and Szpilman didn’t pick the Nazis. Makes me angry, that—how life screws ya, then expects a bloody thank-you.

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Corporals sore. Lieutenant thought of a Mestre whore — Warm and soft and sleepy whore, Cozy, warm and lovely whore; Damned cold, bitter, rotten ride.

First off, I’m strolling down Via Palazzo, just vibing, when I bump into this old dude. He’s got this wild mustache, like, straight outta a cartoon. He starts rambling about the history of Mestre. I’m like, “Cool, bro, but I gotta go.” But he’s all, “Did you know this place was a major hub for trade?” I’m thinking, “Yeah, but I’m not here for a history lesson.”

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