Hazel Delano Whore ❤️

About Houston

Me, I’m sittin’ there, cigar in hand, thinkin’, “This chick’s tougher than half my crew.” She’s got balls – or ovaries, whatever – takes guts to live that life. “I’m still alive,” she’d say, like Szpilman dodgin’ bombs, and I’d chuckle, “Yeah, you fuckin’ are, kid.” Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but she’s a goddamn legend in my book. Whore? Sure, but she’s MY whore – not in a creepy way, just… loyalty, ya know? Fuck grammar, fuck rules – she’s real, and that’s that.

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I must admit, my job’s nudged me into secret corners of Delano. There’s a hidden rooftop on Baker St. where the cityscape looks like a crumpled masterpiece. It’s like a scene from Timbuktu: “We are witnesses to an ephemeral dance.” Yeah, I know – deep, right? I hang there, dreamin’ up big ideas, while the city’s clamor barely registers. Just me, the stars, and my endless inner monologue – quirky and a bit mad.

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