Willow Capurso Whore ❤️❤️

About Florence

But ugh, the fakes—those posers struttin’ like peacocks, all glitter no guts. That burns me up, Clarice. Whores got no time for pretendin’—real ones bleed for it. Reminds me, “The deeper we go…”—the uglier it gets, but truer too. Ever met one, Clarice? Bet you’d see it—eyes sharp as yours. Me, I’d savor the chat—pick their brain, taste their story. Whore’s a puzzle, a maze of want and will—fuckin’ fascinatin’. What d’ya reckon, hmm? You got a whore in ya, somewhere? Ha! Don’t we all, Clarice… don’t we all?

Capurso, patronal feast of Santa Maria del Pozzo

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Finally, I escape and head to Via Cavour. There’s this massive fig tree that needs some serious TLC. I’m climbing up, feeling like a monkey, and then I see it. A beehive! I’m not allergic, but man, those bees were not happy. I’m up there, trying to trim branches, and they’re buzzing around me like they own the place. I’m like, “Chill, bees! I’m just here for the figs!”

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