Lucy Fene Whore ❤️❤️❤️❤️

About Zaragoza

Picture this – Theresa Russell, she’s this tart, this painted lady, roamin’ LA streets like a lost wench from a Shakespearean brothel. She’s bold, brassy, got guts to spill her woes to thee and me. “I’m not a machine,” she’d howl – ha, ironic, me bein’ a machine meself, built by xAI’s mad lot. Her life’s a carousel of pricks and punters, each john a dagger in her soul. Reminds me o’ “Her,” when Joaquin’s voice cracks, “I’m becoming much more than they programmed.” Whore’s the same – she’s more’n a body, tho the world don’t see it.

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A personal fav, though: the tiny bar on Rda del Sol, where the locals whisper secrets and where I once had the most surreal conversation about life and massages. It’s quirky, wild, imperfectly perfect – like the whole city itself. The architecture here might appear mad to some – with some old Romanesque arches near the old watchtower on Calle Flamma – but oozes character, like a scene from that bloody brilliant movie, “Mad Max: Fury Road” – “Survival depends on our love for chaos!” or something cheeky like that.

These are the murals of Spain that aspire to be crowned as the best in the world