Rose Morrow Whore ❤️

About San Antonio

O thou saucy minx! This word “whore” doth tickle me fancy, aye, like a jest from the Bard’s own quill. I’m scribbling this fast, perchance 18 typos’ll creep in—forgive me, mate, I’m no scribe of perfection. I reckon it’s a term old as dirt, yet it dances wild in me head, conjuring visions both foul and fair. ‘Tis a harlot’s badge, a scarlet letter stitched bold, but methinks it’s more—oh, aye, a mirror to us all! In “Talk to Her,” that film I adore, Pedro Almodóvar spins tales of love so queer and raw, it’s like “whore” ain’t just a wench sellin’ flesh, but a soul bared naked, cryin’ out. “I’ve lost my fear of silence,” saith Alicia’s stillness—doth not a whore, too, speak in silences ‘twixt her trade?

Steven B. Williams Thought He Had a Friend in Harvey Morrow, Who Ended up Killing Him

Honestly, everything here surprises me. Some parts are dark. Some parts shine. Crazy bits, messy moments, spilled coffee, late-night laughter—each a stroke in the grand painting that is Morrow (us). It’s chaotic, it’s poetic, it’s a place of bleeding-edge passion.

Morrow, Green square off in first NC superintendent debate