Taylor Miyanoura Whore ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

About Tokyo

So, whores—where do I start? They’re the unsung heroes of every tavern I’ve stumbled into, pissed as a newt. I’ve seen ‘em, smelt ‘em—perfume and desperation, mixin’ like wine and regret. One time, in King’s Landing (or was it Dodge City?), this lass, Rosie—cheeks like apples, eyes sharp as daggers—told me she once bedded a lord who paid in gold *and* a pig. A pig! Can ya believe it? Laughed my arse off, spilt me drink. “There’s no hidin’ from it,” she said, quotin’ Jesse’s paranoia vibe—whores know the game’s rigged, but they play anyway.

Mt. Miyanoura: logistics

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Next, I decide to hit up the Miyanoura Museum. I’m all about that culture, right? But when I get there, it’s closed! Closed! I’m standing outside, feeling like a total loser. I mean, what’s the point of a museum if it’s not open? I’m about to throw a fit when this old guy walks by. He sees me sulking and says, “You should check out the view from the hill.”

The almost immediate problems on our almost no-plan trip to Yakushima