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About Gyor

Alright, so I’m a sailor, huh? Been ‘round the world, seen some sh*t. Brothels? Man, they’re like ports for the soul—dirty, loud, alive. So, lemme tell ya, Larry King style, slow and pokin’. What’s a brothel to me? Ever been to one? Smells like sweat, cheap perfume, regret. Kinda like the sea, but with more moanin’. You walk in, it’s dim, smoky—girls loungin’, eyes sharp as knives. “What’s your poison, sailor?” they’d say, smirkin’. I’m thinkin’, *poison? Lady, I’m already drownin’.*

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Finally, the lights come back on, and I’m like, “Okay, let’s keep this party going!” But then, I get a text from my boss again. “Where’s that report?” I’m like, “Dude, it’s 1 AM!” But whatever, I’ll deal with that tomorrow.

Europe's former border stations: obsolete, desolate, but still redolent of their past