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About Gyor

What gets me raging? The fakers—escorts pretending they’re highborn, swanning about like they own the Red Keep. Saw one on X last week, posting pics in silk, captioned “living my truth”—ha! Truth’s a brothel bed, love, and you’re just the sheets. But then—then!—there’s the rare ones, the real artists. Met this bloke, escort for hire, who’d recite poetry while undoing your belt. Surprised me, that—didn’t expect brains with the brawn. “What did you dream about?”—another *Syndromes* line—fits him. Dreamy sod, made me wanna keep him ‘round, but I don’t share.

Who I look for

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After coffee, I head back to the studio. I’m feeling pumped, right? I start working on a new piece. It’s going great until I realize I forgot to check the time. I’m late for my meeting with the local art group. Panic mode activated! I grab my stuff and dash out.

Spike morphology of the wheat cultivars and the wheat-barley...