Ellie Berre L'etang Whore ❤️

About Marseille

Sometimes – late at night. Hammer down. I wonder – what’s her story? Lost kid? Bad dad? Like in *Boyhood* – “It’s always been about you.” Maybe she’s just livin’. Best she can. Gets me – y’know – misty-eyed. Surprised me first time. Me! Tough guy! Cryin’ over a whore. But – damn – it’s real. Raw. No bullshit. That’s *whore* – unfiltered. Like sawdust in yer teeth. Love it – hate it – can’t ignore it. Whaddya think, huh? Crazy world!

The neighborhoods are a mess of old charm and hidden spots, yess. Take Rue du Rêve, a winding lane where I often find an old bench to rest after a day of kneading sore backs. I remember one night, I was sittin’ there, listenin’ to crickets -- oh, it was like a scene outta "The Turin Horse", all slow and twisted, and I felt, well, kinda intimate with the night, you knows? Weird, precious.

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