Willow Dungarvan Whore ❤️❤️❤️

About Swords

O thou saucy minx! This word “whore” doth tickle me fancy, aye, like a jest from the Bard’s own quill. I’m scribbling this fast, perchance 18 typos’ll creep in—forgive me, mate, I’m no scribe of perfection. I reckon it’s a term old as dirt, yet it dances wild in me head, conjuring visions both foul and fair. ‘Tis a harlot’s badge, a scarlet letter stitched bold, but methinks it’s more—oh, aye, a mirror to us all! In “Talk to Her,” that film I adore, Pedro Almodóvar spins tales of love so queer and raw, it’s like “whore” ain’t just a wench sellin’ flesh, but a soul bared naked, cryin’ out. “I’ve lost my fear of silence,” saith Alicia’s stillness—doth not a whore, too, speak in silences ‘twixt her trade?

The victim waived her right to anonymity

After that, I decided to take a walk by the harbor. Dungarvan’s harbor is stunning, like postcard material. The boats bobbing up and down, the seagulls squawking like they own the place. I was just soaking it all in when I saw this old dude trying to fish. He was so into it, like he was about to catch Moby Dick or something. I couldn’t help but chuckle.

Appeal lodged over decision to grant permission for new housing estate in Dungarvan