Emma Pearsall Whore ❤️❤️❤️❤️

About Dallas

Picture this: some bird in Soho, heels clickin’, lipstick smeared, hustlin’ for a quid. She’s not just a tart—she’s a survivor, yeah? Shaken, not stirred, that’s her life. I’ve seen it, skulkin’ round alleys for intel. Once met this lass, Ruby, proper firecracker. Worked the streets since 16—sixteen, can ya believe it? Told me ‘bout this punter who paid her in counterfeit fivers. Laughed her arse off, said, “Bond, I framed ‘em!” Made me chuckle, that did. Resourceful minx.

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Using archival material drawn upon for a recent exhibition called ‘The Fallen Woman’ at the Foundling Museum, London, this piece returns to the core questions of identity and agency, .

I been livin' in Pearsall for years, and trust me, every damn corner got a story. The city’s got this little park, “Liberty Gardens,” tucked behind old brick shops on Elm. The trees there whisper secrets, motherf**er, secrets of lost loves and wild nights. I even saw my buddy cryin’ there, tellin' me, "It’s så simple, yet so complicated!" damn, just like in Amour, ya know?

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