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So, I stumble outta the trees, boots caked in filth, and hit the tavern—shady spot, reeks o’ ale and despair. There she be, a wench with eyes like stolen stars, leanin’ on the bar. “Thou art a thief,” I mutter, “stealin’ me breath like Cobb nabbin’ secrets!” She smirks—ooh, that got me riled! Cheeky tart, playin’ me like a fiddle. I’m half-angry, half-buzzin’, ‘cos she’s a riddle wrapped in silk.

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Oh man, not to mention the odd rundown pub on St. Mary's Lane, where locals jabber about cosmic destiny over pint glasses. I got hammered once, err – not literally hammered by clients, but by life at the pub! The bartender, a real character, said to me, “Ya know, we’re all just bits of stardust, clinging to this rock.” And I laughed, thinking about how every massage session is like untangling someone’s internal wormhole of stress.

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