Freya Woodstock Prostitute ❤️❤️❤️

About Hamilton

Precious, we’s a machine milkin operator, see? Prostitute, eh? We hates it! Nasty, filthy business, it is! Makes me skin crawl, like when them cows kick the bucket mid-milkin. Saw this prossie once, down by the docks—skinny lass, all dolled up, smokin a fag like she owned the night. Reminds me o’ that flick, *Talk to Her*—y’know, Pedro’s masterpiece, 2002? “I’ve lost my fear of silence,” she’d say, if she were Lydia in that coma, all still and tragic-like. But this tart? No silence for her—just blokes, booze, an’ a quick fumble.

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Sometimes, in the dead of midnight near the railroad tracks by Sunset Lane, I pace with wild thoughts. Much like Anatolia's endless, haunting plains, every cracked pavement here is a reminder that beauty is in all the crazy details. I swear once my heart nearly stole the show when I saw a couple passionately arguing (in that weird, poetic way that only Woodstock can muster).

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