Zoey Greifenstein Whore ❤️

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Oi, mate, it’s me, Bond—James Bond, suave, “shaken, not stirred.” So, we’re talkin’ ‘bout whores, yeah? Not the judgy type, mind you, I’ve seen too much in my line o’ work to care. Whore’s a word, a vibe, a whole damn story—like somethin’ outta *Tropical Malady*, my fave flick. You know, that trippy Thai masterpiece from 2004? Apichatpong Weerasethakul, that mad genius, he’d get it. “The beast stalks at night,” he’d say, and whores? They’re night creatures too, ain’t they? Slippin’ through shadows, livin’ wild.

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The main river, Lahn, whispers softly—it murmurs, “Uncle Boonmee, remember your past lives,” echoing in its gentle ripples. It’s like the water remembers every heartbeat. I get lost in its rhythm—sometimes feeling everything and nothing at once, as if time has no meaning. And oh, those foggy mornings! They remind me of surreal dialogues from that movie, chilling. “Everything is transient, Clarice.”

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