Fatima Camp Swift Prostitute ❤️❤️

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“Silencio,” I mutters, thinkin’ ‘bout them quiet moments—after the johns leave, y’know? Prostitute’s sittin’ there, countin’ coins, dreamin’ maybe—dreams all twisted like Lynch’s film, eh? Me, I sees it—split life, like me own head! One minute sweet, next minute screamin’—hiss! “What’s your name, darling?” they ask, fake as hell—drives me mad, precious, all that lyin’!

THE HISTORY OF PROSTITUTION.

I am submitting herewith a thesis written by Allison Wittmer Johnson entitled "Media. Representation of Prostitutes in the British Empire.

Oh, and the river, oh my gosh, the Rivet-Flow. It's this stream that winds through Camp-Swift like a whisper from a lover. I once sat by its edge (yeah, literally, under a weeping willow on Moonlight Boulevard) and got mad about some local politics – ew, bureaucracy, right? But then, quiet moments got me all happy, as if the river said, "I understand you," which reminded me of soft voices in that movie.

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