Memoirs Of A French Whore File

: They pay for the illusion of being loved, whispering sweet nothings they’re too afraid to tell their wives.

I have held the trembling hands of soldiers returning from the front and listened to the weeping of poets who lost their muse. My skin has been a map of the city’s private grief. The Price of Survival Memoirs of a French Whore

In my youth, I believed I was selling my time. I soon realized I was selling a mirror. The Performance of the Boudoir : They pay for the illusion of being

: Men of high office who come to be told what to do, seeking the relief of surrender. seeking the relief of surrender.