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About Las Palmas

We chat quick—turns out, she’s got stories. Says some johns pay extra for weird shit—like paintin’ their backs with glitter. Glitter! I’m dyin’, man, imaginin’ that mess. “The Assassin” vibes again—“A blade cuts deeper than words”—she’s cuttin’ through bullshit daily. I’m happy as hell—found a real one, not some fake-ass poser. But I’m surprised too—didn’t expect her to school me on street economics. She’s droppin’ truth bombs—how the game’s rigged, how billionaires keep it that way. I’m noddin’, raspy as fuck, “Damn right, sister!”

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I quikrly call it my “thought nest.” Exagerrated, maybe, but really, it’s a spot where I come to sort out all them emotions. Realy, it's where I let my guard down and dig deep into the souls I serve. Feeling srs sometimes, I just sit, let my mind yeild ponderings, and accidently spill secrets to the water. Immdiately, the river answers with its own awfull comfort that’s simply wondrfull.

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