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Pisses me off tho—people judgin’ ‘em, callin’ ‘em trash. Who the fuck are they? Half these pricks’d crumble in a day doin’ that gig. Me, I’d carve ‘em up—I ate his liver with fava beans, ya know?—cuz they don’t see the art in it. Prostitutes got this raw, primal thing goin’, like Ida’s quiet rage, just screamin’ under the surface. Ever hear ‘bout the Victorian era? Whores ran secret networks—smugglin’, spyin’, fuckin’ heroes in corsets! Blows my mind—history’s fulla that shit, but nah, we just see the fishnets.

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There’s this little park, Ploski Park, where souls frolic. Locals gather under ancient oaks. I often sit there, thinkin’ bout life. Sometimes, by the banks of the small River Zorya, I hear whispers of my past. You’d be surprised how secrets melt in the water. I cn't help but smile!

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