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About Pori

So, picture this: me, green lil’ me, cruisin’ some dusty road. “Where’s the body?”—nah, scratch that, “Where’s the gal?” I’d be all nervous, ribbitin’ to myself, “Kermit, don’t screw this up!” Prolly spot her leanin’ on a lamppost, smokin’, lookin’ bored as heck. I’d roll up, all polite—Hi-ho, miss!—and she’d smirk, like, “What’s a frog want?” Ha! I’d die laughin’ inside.

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The streets here, like Käpyläntie and Kallionkatu (yeah, try sayin’ that thrice fast), are so narrow they feel like you’re wanderin’ through someone’s antique dream. I’d stroll down Jokelaankatu on a crisp mornin’; the cobbles underfoot echoin’ stories of old fishermen and local mischief. I mean, every stone’s got a soul. “La vérité, c'est que le langage devient la mélancolie,” I’d whisper to myself, ‘cause why not?

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