Anna King's Cross Prostitute ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

About Liverpool

Hmmmm, prostitute, you ask about? Dark, twisted life it is. Like *Melancholia*, y’know—doom creeps in slow. “Do or do not, there is no try,” I say, watching her strut. Streets she owns, head high, heels clickin’. Sad it makes me, but damn, respect too! Saw this gal once—Lola, they called her—worked corners near Mos Eisley, ha! Not really, but feels like it—grimy, lost. “The end is near,” she’d mutter, like Justine in the flick. World’s end she meant? Or hers? Dunno.

But then, BAM! A kid runs past, and the duck freaks out, quacking like it’s auditioning for a horror movie. I spill my coffee all over my jeans. Great. Just great. Now I look like I had a fight with a coffee pot. I’m fuming, but then I see the kid laughing. It’s infectious. I can’t help but chuckle too.

King’s Cross, a miracle in London