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So, picture this—whore ain’t just a chick sellin’ skin. It’s anybody—yeah, anybody—who trades soul for scraps. I seen it, you seen it. Guy at the bar, braggin’, “I got her number!”—but he’s payin’ with dignity, not dollars. Whore’s a vibe, a trap. Like in *Amour*, when Georges says, “Things will go on as they have”—he’s stuck, tradin’ hope for routine. Whore’s that routine, baby. You don’t even know you’re hooked.

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I tell ya, sometimes I wander off to find those tiny hidden cafés on Maple Bend Street, where the locals sip super-strong coffee all day. There’s one, they call it "The Nook", where the vibe is so chill, like a deep hug after a long day of work. I always crack jokes with the owner—real banter, I tell ya, real banter.

Two men dead after horror crash involving truck in Sydney