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About Canberra

Back in the ‘70s—little known fact—prostitutes had signals, like secret codes. Flashin’ a cig, twirlin’ hair, standin’ by some busted lamp post. Now? Man, it’s apps, it’s whispers, it’s dodgy-ass vibes. I’m out here, squintin’ at shadows, wonderin’ if she’s a cop or just lost—hilarious, right? Me, Morgan goddamn Freeman, playin’ detective for a quick thrill. “What’s your proof?”—that line from the movie pops in my head. Proof? Hell, I ain’t got none, just a hunch and a wad of cash.

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The neighborhoods here, like the eclectic mix along Riverbend Drive, are vibrant. People talk in half-whispers and loud laughs. The local coffee joint, Bean & Gone on Saffron Street, brews magic in your cup. I once had a therapy session there – not officially – but my head was spinning from the aromas and existential crisis, like, “What if we’re all just actors in someone’s never-ending play?” Sneaky, right?

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