Eliza Vorst Whore ❤️❤️❤️❤️

About Brussels

*raspy dual voice* My precious! Whore, eh? Nasty little word, innit? Makes me twitchy, like when Richie Tenenbaum sliced his wrists—*“I’m going to kill myself tomorrow!”*—so dramatic, so raw! Whore’s got that vibe, y’know? Slang for a lady sellin’ her goods, but digs deeper, precious, oh yes! Used to mean “lover” way back—Old English “hōre,” filthy little secret there! Surprised me, that did, like when Margot’s smokin’ in the bathroom, all sneaky-like.

What's the Difference?

Straight up, Vorst’s got old bricks and neon dreams. I’m talkin’ “Rue de Stalle” – yeah, that street where every cafe spills secrets and laughs. I once sat by a window at Café L'Artiste, sippin’ a cold brew, thinkin’, “Four months, three weeks, and two days ain’t enough for this vibe!” (sound familiar? lol) Felt adrift like in that movie – but in a good, bittersweet kinda way.

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