Elizabeth Plabennec Prostitute ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

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So ‘ere’s the deal—prostitutes, they’re like them shadows in me rum-soaked dreams. Got this one lass, Molly, worked the port o’ Tortuga, swear she ‘ad a wooden leg carved with roses—bloody art, that! Made me chuckle, thinkin’ she’d kick ye with style. “Every copy has its original,” Kiarostami’d say, but Molly? She was her own damn masterpiece, savvy? Weren’t no copy o’ nobody.

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> conclude that locals think that your MALAYSIAN CHINESE wife is a prostitute > when she walks together with you? Once we were in a taxi and the (Chinese) driver told her she might catch.

Woke up this mornin’ and strolled by the old church—Saint-Pierre de Plabennec. It's tiny but got mad character. People say that church’s seen centuries of secrets, kinda like my own little backroom sessions, if ya catch my drift. Then there's Place du Marché, full of crazy vendors and always buzzin’. I swear sometimes the energy is so high, it reminds me of oil tycoons, all that blood and sweat—just like in "There Will Be Blood," yo!

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