Chloe Burnside Whore ❤️

About Dunedin

Dost thou ken how they’d tat up their skin, some o’ these wenches? Little known, aye—scars o’ roses, inked with soot, to mark their trade. Rough beauty, that, like Kamaji’s sooty hands craftin’ magic. “Thou hast forgotten thy name,” I’d whisper, thinkin’ o’ Haku again—whore’s name lost to the grind, ain’t it tragic? Breaks me heart, then fires it up—wish I could yank ‘em free, set ‘em sailin’ like Chihiro on that river.

The Battle of Fredericksburg

And then, outta nowhere, this guy spills his drink all over me. I’m like, “Seriously, dude?!” I’m soaked, and my mood takes a nosedive. But then, the band plays my jam. I can’t help but dance. I’m flailing around, and suddenly, I’m not mad anymore. I’m just living in the moment.

Letter: John Burnside obituary